


Running in the Shadows

by rainbowninja167



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, hidden identities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 14:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowninja167/pseuds/rainbowninja167
Summary: “Zayn was right,” Liam says. “Someone is searching for his asset, and they’ve got about a month’s head start on us.”“And I assume this is where I come in?” Louis asks wryly.“We don’t have a lot of information – Zayn did a very thorough job protecting him – but we think there are three strong contenders: a photographer, a baker, and a yoga instructor.”“Seriously? Do we even know this bloke’s real name?”Liam shoots Louis a small grin and shrugs. “Yeah, actually. The man you’re looking for? His name is Harry Styles.”Louis is an MI6 agent, and Harry is...difficult to find.





	1. Damn Your Love

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I can't believe this fic is finally ready to be posted! It's been quite a journey, you guys. Thanks to [Mira](http://sparkling-larry.tumblr.com/) for the gorgeous art and the awesome prompt, and for being tolerant when I took her idea in super weird directions... Thanks also to Jo and Bert for being amazing sounding boards when I was stuck. This fic literally would not exist without their encouragement and smart fixes. And lastly, thanks to the Reverse Bang mods for all their hard work!

 

 

“We’ve heard from Zayn,” Liam says, and relief hits Louis hard. It’s only through years of practice that he’s able to keep the emotion off his face as Liam slides a slim Manila folder across the desk toward him. Zayn has been missing for weeks now, with no hint of contact with MI6.

Louis had wanted to search for him immediately. It had been the most vicious row of both their working relationship _and_ their friendship when Liam had forbidden him from leaving London. Today, Louis doesn’t say anything, just quietly notes the classified markings on the front of the folder and tries to stay impassive while he reads its contents. Until suddenly, he can’t help himself.

Stoicism is overrated, anyway, even for a spy.

“This message is almost a month old. And it didn’t come through official MI6 channels,” Louis notes, eyes flickering up to Liam’s before glancing back down at the text in front of him. He senses rather than sees Liam shift uncomfortably across the desk.

“Well, it’s a good thing, yeah? Otherwise, he’d already be dead.” Liam is right, of course. Around the same time that Zayn must have sent this message, MI6 had been rocked by the discovery of a high-level double-agent in their organization. It had been devastating information. Simon Cowell had headed the SIS: he knew all their protocols, had access to _everything_ about them, and he’d been killed before they could learn what information he’d sold and to whom. The entire agency had been in a state of constant turmoil for the past month. Liam had been promoted several rungs higher up the management ladder, which Louis had teased was a clear sign of their desperation.

And meanwhile, Louis had been stuck in London while his best friend vanished without a word.

Liam clears his throat and continues: “Er. It’s a system we set up when I was Zayn’s handler. When we wanted to—when there was stuff MI6 didn’t need to hear.” Liam is practically radiating awkwardness in Louis’ peripheral vision, but Louis keeps his eyes firmly on the communication in his hands. He’d always suspected that _something_ had gone on between Zayn and Liam during their assignment in Karachi. They’d practically lived in each other’s pockets for two years, but then Liam had come back to a desk job in London and Zayn had gone off to a new assignment in fuck-knows-where, and that was apparently that. Liam had always completely stonewalled Louis’ admittedly nosy attempts to find out more.

Louis finally looks up, and it’s like he’s seeing Liam properly for the first time in months: the circles under his eyes, the pallor that wasn’t there even a few weeks ago, the suit Louis is almost certain Liam wore yesterday. Louis can tell by the way he’s resting his elbows on the desk that he hasn’t even adjusted his desk chair to its proper height yet.

Louis finds that any urge to tease Liam about Zayn has completely dissipated. He quirks a small smile at Liam and changes the subject.

“According to this, Zayn sent his asset into hiding, destroyed every file that MI6 had on the bloke, and then went underground himself? What had him so spooked?”

“You really don’t know?” Liam looks almost comically bewildered, and Louis shoots him an irritated look. “Sorry, sorry. Just. I thought it’d be all over the office. This lot are worse gossips than my mum’s PTA.” Liam waves vaguely in the direction of his locked office door, as if to encompass the entirety of the MI6 staff lurking outside it.

“Oh, they’ve been _talking_. But unless I missed my own face-off against Simon Cowell, in a battle-to-the-death through the crypts of Westminster Cathedral? They don’t know shit.”

Liam’s tired mouth quirks into a smile, and although it’s only a shadow of his old cheerful grin, Louis feels unaccountably comforted to see it. Liam glances once at the door – still shut firmly – and then leans forward a bit and lowers his voice into an urgent murmur.

“Zayn’s the one who uncovered Simon. Well...Zayn and the analyst he was working with. It’s possible there’s more information that Zayn wasn’t able to send us. And it’s become clear that somebody else is looking for them. Zayn and his asset.”

Liam slides forward another file that Louis flips through with interest.

“Known Cowell associate…chatter places him outside Cardiff? Why the hell would he be there?”

“Dynas Mynach is the town. It’s a bit of a...private reference? Between me ‘n’ Zayn, so it’s somewhere he knows I’d recognize. It’s where Zayn would have sent someone if he couldn’t protect them himself,” Liam says confidently. “But this means Zayn was right. Someone _is_ searching for his asset, and they’ve got about a month’s head start on us.”

“And I assume this is where I come in?” Louis asks wryly. He’s still flipping through the second folder. Past all their gathered information on Cowell’s associates (slim, unfortunately), he encounters a series of civilian profiles.

“We don’t have a lot of information on the analyst – Zayn did a very thorough job protecting him. But we know a few details: age, general appearance, and now, thanks to Cowell’s friend, a location. I had a list compiled of everyone fitting the description who’s arrived in Dynas Mynach in the last month, and we think there are three strong contenders: a photographer, a baker, and a yoga instructor. All the information we have on them is there, in the packet.”

Louis scans the profiles with interest. Each man looks to be in his mid-to-late twenties, with curly dark hair and eyes on a spectrum of green-to-hazel. But aside from these superficial details, there doesn’t seem to be much similarity between them.

The photographer, Michael Vaughn, has grown his hair long, and images from his social media account show that he often wears it up in a messy bun. He’d be rather fit, Louis thinks absently, if not for his truly execrable taste in loud, printed patterns that Louis supposes Anna Wintour would call “bohemian.” He has a residence in London, but CCTV footage has him poking around old churches in Dynas Mynach for the past several weeks.

Liam, seeing what photos Louis has been studying, chimes in: “Our best guess is that he’s in Dynas Mynach for work. The town is famous for its chapels, although many of them are in poor repair right now. Although I don’t need to tell you how useful a cover an itinerant photographer might be.”

“No you don’t,” Louis agrees absently, already moving on to the next profile.

Charles Carmichael, baker, grins up at him from the page. He’s clearly the youngest of the three. For one, he hasn’t yet learned how to tame his wild curls, and the entire effect is rather cherubic. Louis scans his employment history: worked in a small-town bakery for years as a teenager. Had a short stint at university, but dropped out early to return to the bakery full-time. Moved to Dynas Mynach a few weeks ago, again to work in a bakery.

“He’s very single-minded,” Louis mumbles, thinking hard. “But isn’t it easy to confirm this one’s identity? He’s had the same employer for years.”

“She just died,” Liam explains, almost apologetically. “The bakery was sold, and the former employees scattered. We haven’t been able to track them down yet, but I’ll let you know if we manage it.”

The third man, Thomas Quinn, is the yoga instructor. Printouts from his professional website show a tall, lean man with a headscarf threaded through his hair and the hint of a dimple lurking in his smile.

“He had a thriving yoga studio in Leeds, but packed it all in a few weeks ago to start another in Dynas Mynach?” Louis questions, glancing up at Liam. Liam shrugs.

“Social media suggests he had a bad breakup around that time; in a public Facebook post, he mentions that the ‘energy’ in Dynas Mynach ‘felt right.’” Liam rolls his eyes a bit at that, but Louis raises his eyebrows, a bit impressed despite himself.

“It’s a good cover, though. Someone who’s broken ties with their past? Who has a vague but sympathetic reason for being in town?”

“You see our issue,” Liam agrees. “Any one of these could be a fake identity, albeit a _very_ well-constructed one. But if Zayn set it up, I’m not surprised it’s airtight.”

Louis suppresses a smile at the hint of fond pride coloring Liam’s voice.

“Alright, but what exactly do you expect me to do, Liam? Walk through the town square shouting that I’m from MI6? If this bloke is as easily spooked as you say, that seems likely to backfire.”

“Zayn included a code-word in his message. “Lucozade.” It’s one we used together, it meant that something or someone was trustworthy. If he’s shared it with his asset, like this message implies, it should make him more inclined to trust you.”

“That’s an awful lot of “if’s” we’re working with here, Li. Do we even know this bloke’s real name?”

Liam shoots him a small grin and shrugs. “Yeah, that’s one of the only things we _do_ know. The man you’re looking for? His name is Harry Styles.”

***

Niall is crouched on the floor of his lab when Louis gets down there, surrounded by a mess of wires and covered bafflingly in strawberry jam.

“Lou!” In Niall’s distraction, he manages to somehow become even more tangled in the wires. It takes Louis a good fifteen minutes to fish him out, in which time he, too, becomes smeared with the jam.

“Experimenting with a new explosive,” Niall says happily as he licks a smudge of jam off his own wrist.

“ _What_?”

“Oh, don’t worry, the jam’s just the delivery method.”

“Well in that case, I have no further questions,” Louis tells him wryly, and wipes his own jammy hands across the back of Niall’s T-shirt. “Whatcha got for me, Neil?”

“Manners,” Niall sniffs, even as he pushes a small case across his desk toward Louis. “No, actually, it’s a boring one this time. Just your standard ID documents and a gun.”

“Boring’s one word for it.”

Niall sighs gustily. “No nanobots, no poisoned lipstick, no mini-bombs wired into someone’s eyeglasses...”

“Just good old-fashioned spycraft,” Louis agrees cheerfully.

“Yeah. _Boring._ Come back quick, so I can build you something cooler.”

It’s a bit of a catchphrase between them, something Niall will say before Louis goes off on a mission, to avoid having to admit to _caring._ Louis has heard the same phrase hundreds of times, but something about Niall’s tone this time stops him short. He glances at Niall, who’s biting his lip and swiveling a little anxiously in his desk chair.

“Ni?” Louis has known Niall long enough not to be fooled by the image he presents to the rest of the agency, of a kid playing with wildly expensive toys, down here in his basement lair. Well, he _is_ that, but despite his age and penchant for innocent destruction, he’s also been the Quartermaster at MI6 since Louis’ mum, Agent J, was in charge years ago. Even then, he’d had uncanny habit of picking up information he has no business knowing. Louis reckons that’s why his mum had pushed so hard to recruit him after that misunderstanding with the robots.

Best to keep Niall on your own side.

“You know who Liam’s sending with you?” Niall asks abruptly.

“How’d you even know he was sending anyone? You know I usually work alone. Or with Liam. Or Zayn,” Louis says, and is rewarded with a flat stare. “Fine, it’s some bloke from the Cardiff office. Franklin Blake? Liam assures me he’s not an idiot, although I’ll believe it when I see it. Why, do you know him?”

“Nooo,” Niall says slowly. “But that’s kinda what worries me. Simon had a long reach, and the cleanup on this one has barely even begun. ”

“Liam trusts him. And anyway, most of the parameters of this are locked down tight. He’ll barely know he’s _on_ a mission, let alone anything useful enough to do damage.”

“Just…be careful, Lou. Don’t pull a Barcelona, yeah?”

“Oh for _fuck’s_ – it’s been three years! Am I ever gonna stop getting shit for that?”

Niall cackles and submits to having his hair ruffled, and if Louis can feel Niall’s contemplative stare on him all the way to the elevators…well. It’s easy enough to push out of his mind, in favor of focusing on the task ahead.

***

The Dynas Mynach station is nearly empty when Louis disembarks from the train. It had been late when he’d left London, even later when he’d reached Wales, and while Dynas Mynach can loosely be termed a city, it’s clearly not large enough to warrant a great deal of 2am train traffic. Louis would have vastly preferred to arrive amidst a crowd – much less exposed that way – but it’s not like he had much choice, with Liam insisting that Louis leave as soon as possible. Though Louis had whined for the show of it, Liam’s barely concealed anxiety about this mission had continued to work its magic, and made Louis uncharacteristically willing to humor him.

Louis makes his way out of the station and onto the street, his steps echoing eerily on the pavement as his eyes flicker instinctively to catalogue any shadows and corners that could hide a threat. There’s an odd prickling on the back of his neck; he’ll feel much more comfortable behind the locked door of the hotel room that MI6 has booked for him.

His gaze snags on someone loitering awkwardly in the open: a lanky man with close-cropped blond hair and dark, watchful eyes. He’s leaning easily against a wall and fiddling with his phone, but the moment he sees Louis, he blinks and shoves it into his pocket, while at the same time unfolding from his slouch against the wall. The smile he gives Louis is ostensibly friendly, but there’s a subtle tightness to his shoulders that suggests he’s not entirely at ease here either.

“Mr. Tomlinson? I’m Franklin Blake, I’ve been sent to assist you?”

Louis smiles back, but the subtle sense of danger hasn’t passed, so he can’t help but say a little abruptly: “Car?”

Blake blinks at him. “Ah, no. The hotel is only a few blocks away, so I thought we could walk?”

Louis narrows his eyes to study Blake properly. He looks young, and while Louis is usually considered a young agent himself, he somehow doubts this Blake is nearly so competent. If anything, Blake looks visibly out-of-his-depth, and Louis takes a moment to silently curse Liam’s name.

_Experienced agent, my arse. He’s sent me a bloody trainee._

“It’s not a matter of distance, it’s more about the exposure,” Louis grudgingly explains to Blake. “But I don’t fancy standing here while we wait for a taxi either, so I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“Exposure?” Blake gapes a bit at him. “D’you…think we’re in danger, then? _Here_?” He waves a hand, as though to encompass the sleepy high street they’re currently walking down. Louis can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that.

“Well, they don’t usually send me in where it’s safe,” he notes dryly. “Is that a problem?”

“I—no, I just…” Blake sounds thoroughly shaken, but Louis doesn’t have the time -- nor the inclination frankly -- to deal with his new partner’s professional crisis. A subtle clatter sounds behind them, and Louis’ hand darts out to drag a still-stuttering Blake around a corner.

“This isn’t the way to the hotel,” Blake squeaks, tripping along behind him and tugging a bit to loosen Louis’ grip on his arm.

“I’m well aware,” Louis grits out, and refuses to let go. He lets his mind go focused, in the way he’s always been able to cultivate in a crisis, scanning their surroundings and planning a route even as his mind works furiously on the problem of who could be behind them. Liam had said there was a chance Styles had already been traced to Dynas Mynach, but how did _anyone_ know the details of _Louis’_ arrival?

MI6 had only just finished dealing with a betrayal on a massive scale. It chills Louis to think that they might already be facing another one, especially since the number of people who know the details of Louis’ mission in Dynas Mynach is worryingly small.

Louis keeps up a brisk pace even as he mulls this over, doesn’t look behind him, and takes a series of frankly incomprehensible turns until he deems any potential pursuer confused enough to miss the moment he and Blake duck down a nearby alleyway.

Blake opens his mouth and Louis puts a quick hand over it, so that whatever question he was intending to ask only comes out as a panicked squeak of air. Louis keeps up a silent count in his head. At around thirty, he hears rapidly approaching footsteps. He can tell Blake does too; his eyes widen, and he shakes Louis’ hand off him.

They wait, suspended in silence, Louis’ hand creeping ever closer to the gun he keeps in a concealed holster at his side, but the footsteps pass them by without faltering. Louis waits another sixty seconds before letting out a relieved breath.

“Someone followed us? _Here_?” Blake squeaks.

“Mate, you really gotta let go of this weird fixation on _here_. What made you think Dynas Mynach was any safer than anywhere else?”

Somewhat to Louis’ surprise, Blake only shakes his head sharply, but when his eyes meet Louis’ again, they already look more focused, like he’s finally come to terms with the reality of their situation.

“Alright, but Mr. Tomlinson, what are we even doing--” But before Blake can finish, Louis is shushing him.

“When we get back. And call me Louis. Do you go by Franklin, or something else?” Louis forces himself to smile as he leads them both out of the alley and back in the direction of their hotel. But if anything, the friendliness only seems to throw Blake off. He frowns and gives Louis a narrow look, like Louis is trying to trick him somehow. “I don’t—the Handbook says…”

 _Oh god, definitely new_.

“Listen, I’ve seen the file on the hotel we’ll be staying at. I’ll feel right stupid going by “Mr. Tomlinson” when we’re eating omelets with a pair of honeymooners and three old ladies on holiday. Spare me the humiliation, yeah?”

“Er…alright? And uh, Frank is fine for me.”

They walk the rest of the way to the hotel in silence, and while Louis is still on full alert for threats around them, he can’t help but shoot periodic glances at his new assistant, trying to figure him out. Blake seems alright, if a little naïve, and if Louis didn’t resent the very fact of his existence, Louis reckons he might remind him a bit of Liam. Especially Liam as he’d been when they first met: a stickler for rules and blithely confident that becoming a whistleblower to a foreign intelligence organization would have no negative consequences for anyone. Because of that clusterfuck, Louis’d had to sacrifice any working relationship he’d ever pretended to have with the CIA, but he supposes Liam’s life was worth it.

Except when Liam was springing idiot assistants on him -- probably in some earnest bid to force him to _mentor_ \-- and then Louis wholeheartedly regrets his past decision to save Liam from himself.

They reach the hotel without any further incident. It’s a frankly horrible place with paisley wallpaper and a concierge who seems to consider it a personal failing of theirs that they’re arriving so late at night. Louis and Frank part ways at their hotel room doors to put away their luggage, but ten minutes later, Louis sucks it up and knocks on the adjoining door between their rooms, vending machine snacks in hand.

He’ll admit that the man who opens it already looks miles more interesting than the regulation-perfect robot who met him at the station: he’s wearing a comfortable-looking pair of gray sweatpants and a wrinkled Arctic Monkeys t-shirt. His blond hair is in a subtle sort of disarray, probably from when he changed his shirt, but it still goes miles toward softening the crispness of his former image. Only his eyes are the same watchful brown as before.

“You a fan?” Louis nods at the shirt.

“Oh, er…yeah,” Frank answers, clearly thrown by the question.

“What, even though it’s not in the Handbook?” Louis can’t help but tease. He thinks he sees a glimmer of a smile around Frank’s mouth, but it’s gone in an instant.

“That why you’re here? To criticize my wardrobe?”

“Quite the opposite, believe me,” Louis retorts, and shoves the collection of snacks at Frank, who is too startled to do anything but fumble to catch them all. While he’s scrambling, Louis slips into his room and settles on Frank’s bed, blithely ignoring the indignant “hey!” from the doorway.

“C’mon over, Rookie Blue, we’re having a working dinner.”

“ _Who?”_

“Please,” Louis snorts. “Nobody’s trousers are _that_ well-pressed at a train station unless it’s their first time in the field. Tell me I’m wrong?”

Frank opens his mouth to offer an instinctive retort and then frowns.

“Umm, no. Not wrong,” he finally says, with a rueful little shake of his head.

“Well that’s alright. I mean, _yes_ , I’ve concluded that you’re an elaborate prank foisted upon me by my arsehole of a best friend-slash-boss, but it’ll probably be fine. Just...do _exactly_ what I say the entire time we’re here. And _then_ it’ll be fine.”

“Um. Okay? But what _are_ we doing here? Who was that person following us at the station? All they told me in Cardiff was that I was needed to assist a senior agent.” Frank glances over at Louis on the bed, as though dubious that Louis could fulfill the criterion of “senior agent.” In retaliation, Louis grins and sprawls back onto the surprisingly comfortable bedspread, registering the way Frank tenses with badly concealed annoyance at the gesture.

“That’s because most of the details on this one are need-to-know, Spy Kid. I can tell you we’re looking for someone undercover. Someone who may not necessarily want to be found. We’ve got three good leads on the target, details are here.” Louis tugs a folder out from under his arse, where he’d partially fallen on it when he’d settled onto the bed. “My job is to figure out which of these men is the real target. Your job is to assist with surveillance and backup if things get messy, and otherwise stay out of my way.”

“W-what do you mean by ‘messy’? Who is it you’re looking for? What do you know about him?” Frank demands, his questions starting to come out faster and faster.

“Really can’t say, Kim Possible.”

“Would you just— _stop_ with the stupid nicknames for _one second_ and say something _useful_ ?” Frank bursts out, his mouth twisting into a surprisingly dark shape. “ _God_.”

Louis sits up from the bed slowly, with an icy stare that’s been known to make Rear Admirals quail. Frank, he notes with some satisfaction, is not immune to its effects. Before Louis is even properly off the bed, Frank’s gone completely pale, his body shrinking several inches shorter than his usual height.

“Sit down, Agent Blake.” Louis clips out while pointing at a desk chair across the room. He waits as Frank sinks shakily into it and then raises wide, miserable eyes back up to Louis’ face. “Perhaps my instructions to _do exactly as I say_ weren’t clear. But here’s how this mission is going to work: I’m going to do my best to keep you alive, because God knows you’re probably hopeless at it yourself. In return, you will try not to _actively_ endanger yourself more than you can help. But most importantly? When I tell you a discussion is over? _It’s over_.”

“Yes, sir,” Frank agrees quietly. For one horrible moment, Louis worries that he’s going to cry, and he starts to feel a bit guilty. Damn Blake for reminding him so strongly of Liam, anyway.

“Okay,” Louis continues, and forces his voice to go a little gentler. “I’ve already gone through those files for obvious evidence of a false identity, but take a look yourself. See if there’s something I missed.” There won’t be, but Frank doesn’t need to know that. “And...I want you to put together a surveillance plan for me. Long-distance video only -- we don’t want to spook the targets, but I want more flexibility than what CCTV can give us. I’d also like to see any suggestions you have for a first approach.”

“I…really? You want _me_ to do all that?” Frank blinks up at him from the chair, looking thoroughly overwhelmed by the abrupt turns this conversation has taken. Louis tries not to visibly wince when he nods, but he’s rewarded by the hesitant beginnings of a smile.

Maybe this mentorship shit isn’t so bad after all.

***

To Louis’ eternal surprise, the plan Frank hands him the next morning isn’t actively terrible. Louis sits down on Frank’s bed again, absently flagging a few adjustments he’ll need to make. But Frank’s mistakes are due primarily to inexperience, Louis thinks, rather than a total lack of aptitude.

He glances up from the file to find Frank hovering around him, with such an unconcealed longing for approval that Louis has to suppress a laugh.

“You’ve got a knack for this,” he finally allows, and tries not to visibly roll his eyes when Frank beams at him. He flips through to Frank’s notes about approaching their targets, and his usual tight hold on his emotions falters.

“What?” Frank asks immediately, already wilting like a spurned puppy.

“No, it’s just-- oh my God, this is _so detailed_ ,” Louis snickers. “Mate, you’ve planned this conversation down to the _second_. Have you never, like, spoken to a stranger before? Does Cardiff only let you out of the castle on festival days, or something?”

“Shut up,” Frank mumbles, flushing and staring intently at the floor, and Louis feels a bit guilty.

“Look,” he says, as kindly as he can manage. “For an approach like this -- where you’re meant to be strangers meeting by accident -- it’s best to be flexible. Watch carefully for their in-the-moment physical tells; let _them_ guide you toward what they want out of you. And then give it to them. Easy.”

Frank still looks skeptical. Louis gestures him down to the bed, before fanning out the documents that make up their three profiles.

“I’m not saying “don’t have an angle before you go in,” but simpler is usually better. For example, take a look at these--” Louis pulls out a few excerpts from the files on Carmichael, Quinn, and Vaughn. “--and tell me the obvious approach.”

“What, from a bunch of Facebook comments and records of app downloads?” Frank asks, frowning down at the information in his hands. Louis huffs and taps a finger on each of the relevant details in turn.

“References to boyfriends and dating apps for queer men,” Louis corrects, and huffs even louder when Frank still looks lost.

“I’m going to pretend not to be offended that it’s taking you this long,” Louis says wryly, and Frank blinks up at him, mouth going a little slack in shock.

“You’re going to _seduce_ them? Isn’t that a bit manipulative?” Frank asks, the judgment clear in his tone, and this time Louis _does_ roll his eyes, because _honestly_.

“And your script isn’t? Manipulation is the whole point.” Frank seems surprisingly thrown by this logic. He frowns down at the ground as though he’s thinking it through, before redirecting the argument entirely.

“It’s just…statistically unlikely, innit?” Frank mumbles. “That they’d all be attracted to you?”

“It’s got nothing to do with statistics. It’s my job.” Louis shrugs.

“Isn’t it difficult? To pretend to be someone you’re not? And feel things you’re not really feeling?” As Frank talks, the corners of his mouth are still tight with annoyance, even as his tone suggests only mild curiosity. But it’s the look in his eyes that makes Louis pause to take notice: an odd combination of challenge and resignation, like he’s trying to goad Louis into confirming something Frank already believes he knows. Louis has no idea what that might be, so he mentally shakes off the strange impression Frank is giving him, and answers truthfully.

“Babe, you’ve been watching too many Bond films and not paying enough attention in your seminars. Flirting is a _professional strategy_ , not a sign of personal investment: gives the target a sense of intimacy and hides any warning bells they might be sensing about you under that frisson of attraction. Honestly, how do people ever get anything done in Cardiff?”

Frank doesn’t answer, just presses his lips together and gives Louis a hard look. Louis can’t help but laugh a little at how seriously he’s taking this.

“Look, I’m going to start today with Carmichael. After you’ve set up surveillance on his flat and the bakery, why don’t you stick around and watch. You’ll see that nobody’s virtue is getting compromised. I promise.”

Frank’s frown doesn’t completely disappear, but he does give a tight nod of assent. Louis forces himself to smile encouragingly back, even as he’s fighting his own urge to scream. _This_ is why he hates working with partners. It’s so inefficient. Arguing over the most _obvious_ decisions like they’re UN resolutions? It drives him utterly mad. Maybe if anyone ever had a _useful_ contribution… But if Louis’ somewhat spotty history with collaboration has taught him anything, it’s that spies are as easy to read as the rest of the world, and usually twice as boring.

Louis hopes fervently that Liam’s sad, new office chair gives him carpal tunnel.

***

The bakery where Charlie Carmichael works is small and cheerful, with large windows and bubblegum pink display cases that give the entire place a vaguely old-fashioned atmosphere.

Louis takes a moment while pretending to study the cupcake flavors to take in the man behind the counter. Liam’s intel and a brief check with Frank’s long-distance surveillance were both correct: he’s about the right build and age to be Styles. He’s got an easy smile to go with the enormous yellow apron looped around his neck, and every so often he runs a distracted hand through the riot of dark curls springing untidily from his head. Louis notes that Carmichael’s body seems loose – not tense or watchful – but it’s been long enough that if he _is_ Styles, he may’ve just gotten comfortable enough here to let his guard down.

Louis turns back to the cupcakes and considers his approach.

“They taste better than they look,” comes a surprisingly deep voice from behind the counter. When Louis glances back, startled, he’s met with a cheeky grin and a discreet once-over. _Ha! Take that, Blake._

Louis lets some of his real smugness make its way into the slow, suggestive grin he gives Carmichael in return. “Yeah? Then I expect they’ll taste _very_ good. You make ‘em?”

“I do all the cakes and cupcakes here, actually.”

Better and better. Louis lets his posture straighten a bit but keeps the flirty edge. “Then you’re exactly who I’m looking for. I’d like to order a cake, but I was hoping I could sample some, first?”

“Of course!” Carmichael’s face lights up rather endearingly at the prospect of selling a cake, and he rushes to prepare a selection of options, offering a running commentary as he works.

“This was actually inspired from an episode of Bake Off,” Carmichael observes as he cuts a sample slice from the last cake Louis requested. “I just think Ruby Tandoh is the greatest, y’know?”

“It’s a gorgeous cake,” Louis agrees. He worries for a split-second that he’s laid it on too thick, but Carmichael just flushes and shoots Louis a shy smile.

“Alright,” Louis says, a little overwhelmed at the heaping plate of cake samples he’s just been handed. “If I need any more help, should I just call for Mary Berry?”

“Oh, erm.” Carmichael’s blush deepens. “Well, my name is Charlie Carmichael, so. I’d answer to that. Or Mary Berry,” he rushes to add. “Really, it’s...um.” He trails off, thoroughly flustered.

Louis puts the poor man out of his misery by offering his hand to shake. “I’m William. And you can call me whatever you’d like.” He gives Charlie a wink and a wolfish grin before turning away with his plate of cake. He also generously ignores what sounds like the crash of a tip jar behind him.

A half-hour later, Louis is back at the counter with an empty plate and a newfound appreciation for Ruby Tandoh. Charlie’s face lights up when he sees Louis approaching.

“Whatever you put in these cakes is seriously dangerous. I think I ate the first three samples in about two minutes. Not cool, Carmichael,” Louis teases gently.

“I’m glad you liked them.” Charlie directs a quiet grin toward the ground. “We’ve also got a new cupcake flavor in today, if you wanted to try it? It’s an Oreo batter.”

“Now I know you’re trying to kill me,” Louis jokes, but he’s keeping a keen eye out for Charlie’s reaction to the possible double-meaning. Charlie doesn’t visibly react, and Louis tentatively decides to push a little harder.

“Honestly, Carmichael, have you ever considered going into business as a secret agent? One bite of that buttercream frosting would have me confessing all my secrets.”

Charlie quirks an odd smile at him and is opening his mouth to answer, when he’s interrupted by the bell on the bakery door. Charlie blinks and seems to register their relative positions, both leaning over the bakery counter so that their faces are only a few inches apart.

“Oh! Sorry, er…William?” says a familiar voice from behind him, and Louis silently curses the terrible timing of his useless partner.

“Franklin,” he says heavily. Something shutters in Charlie’s expression, and Louis has to suppress an audible groan.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, I just…the meeting?” There’s an odd, pinched expression on Frank’s face as well, one that Louis is having difficulty parsing. He would call it worry, over whatever it was Frank had determined was important enough to interrupt him for, but some instinct is telling him that’s not quite right. For a half-second, it had almost been like…satisfaction. Like Frank had _meant_ to interrupt Louis at such a crucial moment. But that makes no sense.

It’s odd. For someone so uptight and easily spooked, Frank can be surprisingly difficult to read at times. But Louis mentally shakes it off and returns to the conversation at hand.

“Charlie, this is my assistant, Frank. He was meant to wait while I picked up my order.” Louis directs this last statement pointedly at Frank, who only looks moderately repentant.

“Sorry, I was worried we’d be late,” Frank says, blinking at them both. Louis grits his teeth and reminds himself that he’s not currently authorized to commit murder on British soil.

“Thanks for that,” Louis tells Frank sourly once they’re both back on the street.

“You were just flirting, like you said. Thought you would’ve welcomed the extraction, once you’d proved your point.” Frank’s tone is sulky, but Louis catches the defensiveness hiding at its edges. He knows very well that he’d interrupted something important.

“‘Just flirting’ he says,” Louis groans, pinching the skin between his eyes to ward off an impending headache. “God save me from the good intentions of junior agents.”

Frank opens his mouth, probably to say something stupid in his own defense, but Louis shakes his head sharply and jabs a finger into Frank’s chest.

“Nope. No arguments on this. Next time, you’re staying in the car.”

***

Louis waits until the next day to approach Tom Quinn, the yoga instructor. Frank had fled with the remainder of the surveillance equipment the moment they’d returned to the hotel, and Louis had figured they could both use a break from the other.

When he knocks on their connecting door early the next morning, Frank looks sleepy and mildly annoyed to have been woken, so Louis makes their check-in as brief as possible. Really, the only issue of concern is that they’re still having difficulty pinning down the last of their targets: Michael Vaughn, the photographer. He doesn’t have a stable place of business like the other two, and according to Frank, had spent most of yesterday wandering around town in unpredictable patterns. It’s an annoying but not insurmountable problem, so Louis absently tells Frank to keep him updated on Vaughn’s movements and then hurries off to make Quinn’s 10am yoga class.

The studio itself is clean and open, with a soothing color scheme and a subtle scent of jasmine in the air. When Louis shuts the door behind him, the ambient traffic noises are instantly muffled, and Louis feels his earlier tiredness and irritation at Frank dissipating in spite of himself.

He doesn’t get a chance to talk to Quinn before the lesson. The volunteer running the front desk helps him get situated with a yoga mat, and by the time Louis has found a suitable corner and scanned the handful of other students in the room, Quinn is already starting class.

Louis’ mum had made sure he studied dance from a young age, and he’s well-trained in a litany of martial arts styles. And yet, by the fifth downward facing dog, he has to admit -- at least to himself -- that he’s only holding this pose through sheer bloody-mindedness alone.

For a brief second, Louis is tempted to power through, if only to prove that this stupid beginner’s yoga class can’t beat him. Thankfully, sanity and his own sense of professionalism prevails. He’s not actually here for a workout. So Louis lets his arms wobble, pretends he can’t actually reach his toes, and succumbs to his body’s urge to collapse onto his yoga mat after every pose.

With a pang, Louis is suddenly reminded of a day, only a few months after he’d transferred to MI6 from the CIA, when he and Zayn had been thoroughly hungover for a session with their krav maga instructor. At first, their groans and unsteady limbs had been real enough, but it had turned quickly into a wordless competition to make their instructor snap. Perhaps not the wisest course of action, winding up a woman who could kill them in about a thousand inventive and painful ways, but totally _worth_ _it_ for the look of baffled fury on her face when Zayn had attempted a simple take-down and had instead flopped dramatically to the mat.

In the end, Louis is almost equally sorry for the students around him, who have been treated to an hour of the most theatrically terrible yoga Louis could imagine. It’s all worth it, though, for the look of badly concealed pity that Tom Quinn gives him when he slinks forward at the end of class.

“OK, so before you ask: yes I _am_ a grown man who found himself stuck in Lotus position.”

Quinn, bless him, only responds with a sympathetic: “First time?”

“Yeah, my mate recommended it as, like, a stress-reduction thing? But I reckon it might be backfiring.”

“I dunno, I think the best things for us are probably hardest at first, yeah?” Quinn notes. He’s busy sweeping back the sweaty curls that have escaped his headscarf during the lesson, but even as he fiddles with his hair, he regards Louis with a serious sort of focus.

“Ugh, that’s ridiculously well-adjusted of you,” Louis grumbles. Quinn shakes his head, but there’s a quirk of humor lurking at the edges of his mouth.

“Yoga instructor, remember? It’s all part of the illusion.” Quinn’s smile breaks through for real, and he makes an endearingly dorky attempt at jazz hands. “So what kind of stress are you looking to reduce? Work stuff?”

Louis is reluctantly charmed, even more so by the entirely unsubtle fishing, but he can’t help but wonder if there’s more to Quinn’s line about illusions than a chat-up. Either way, Louis’ answer is the same: “Bad breakup actually,” with a shrug that he knows will come across as too casual to be real. Something that almost looks like pain flashes across Quinn’s face, and for an instant, Louis feels guilty about the profile on Quinn that’s currently sitting in his hotel room.

“Oh.” Quinn is quiet, biting his lip a bit as he frowns at the ground, and Louis actually hopes that he _is_ the real Harry Styles, rather than some poor bloke that Louis is (rather successfully) conning. He blames Blake for this uncharacteristic attack of his conscience, but still.

Spies can be such _assholes_ , Louis thinks ruefully, before going in for the kill: “Yeah, I actually just moved here – had to get away, you know? But now I’m in a new city and don’t know anyone, so. Another thing that backfired,” Louis finishes with a self-deprecating smile. Quinn looks a little stunned.

“This is crazy, but I actually know _exactly_ how you feel.” Quinn pauses and gives Louis a worryingly piercing look before glancing around the yoga studio. “Um, so…this was actually my last class until the afternoon? I don’t suppose you’d want to get, like, a coffee or something? In solidarity with another English transplant?”

Louis grins back. “I’d love it.”

***

A few hours later, Louis is slamming the door of their hotel room, a deeply apologetic Frank in tow.

“When I said ‘keep me posted’ on Vaughn, I meant via _text_ or something. Fuck!”

“I’m sorry!” Frank groans, for possibly the hundredth time. “I didn’t think!”

“Clearly not,” Louis clips out.

“Well how was I supposed to know you were about to hit on _important information_. It all looked like more flirting to me!” Frank shoots back, and Louis stares at him in surprise. Gone is the slightly hang-dog expression; his face is reddening with annoyance now, and there’s a certain air of righteous innocence in the way he’s tilting his head.

“Oh _did it_?” Louis says, enunciating every consonant, but Frank must not be able to read the danger in it, because he barrels on, oblivious.

“I just think that keeping me in the dark is doing more harm than good. This is the second time I’ve _clearly_ interrupted something crucial, but even now, I have no idea what it was!”

Louis narrows his eyes, but manages to keep a reign on his temper. “You don’t have to know. You just have to do your job.”

“But that’s my point! I _can’t_ do my job, can I? Why have we been investigating three random men? And what the hell are you supposed to accomplish by flirting with them!?”

Warnings ping in Louis’ brain -- warnings that sound uncomfortably like Niall -- and he examines Frank as impartially as he can manage. Louis takes in the rigidity of his posture; the unconscious way he clenches his fist before deliberately relaxing it. It doesn’t feel calculated. If anything, Louis concludes, Frank is trying to play down his own, genuine frustration. But even so...

“Why are you pushing this?”

“I just think I could help better if I knew--” Frank starts, and there’s that righteous head-tilt again. And suddenly, whatever Frank’s motives for asking, Louis has had enough of them.

“I said _no_ , Agent Blake.”

Frank opens his mouth, then flushes and shuts it again.

“Understood.” he mumbles, but he won’t meet Louis’ eyes.

“Alright,” Louis says slowly. However real Frank’s emotions have been, _something_ has certainly been off about the whole conversation. Louis would bet his life on it. He just wishes he knew what the _hell_ it was.

***

Frank’s interruption about Vaughn’s whereabouts had been ill-timed, but ultimately useful. Frank is certain he knows what Vaughn will be photographing next: a small church named Saint David’s Chapel, squashed between two office buildings in the center of town. But even so, Louis spends three long days at the Costa outside Saint David’s before he finally spots a man in a black pea coat and skinny jeans, with dark hair pulled up into an untidy bun. He looks enough like Frank’s surveillance on Vaughn that Louis has already started casually gathering up his laptop, but then the man pulls out a camera, making it all but certain that Louis had finally found Michael Vaughn.

Louis watches as Vaughn starts to circle the chapel, stopping periodically to snap photos or stare up at a buttress with a slight frown of concentration. In the time it takes to finish his last few gulps of tea, Louis thinks through his next move. By the time he’s ready to toss it casually into a public bin, he’s settled into his chosen persona: slightly lonely, slightly bored, and perfectly calculated to draw in a solitary stranger like Vaughn.

He wanders around the outside of the chapel, ensuring that after ten or fifteen minutes, his path brings him into Vaughn’s orbit.

“Starting to feel like the tourist centre was having me on,” he offers, once they’re finally standing next to each other.

“Sorry?” Vaughn snaps another photo and then squints at whatever appears on his screen.

“The Chapel Tour. They gave me a brochure.” Louis waves it ruefully. “Apparently this one is “of particular historical interest” but I gotta admit, I’m not sure I can tell the difference between this one and the _other_ three Saint Davids I’ve seen today.”

Vaughn’s eyes flicker over to him with a slight smile, as though he’s not sure he’s meant to laugh, before he returns to his camera.

“Least here I’m not the only tourist; reduces the odds I’ll get kicked out of _this_ Saint David for impersonating a nun.”

Vaughn stills, blinks, and then finally drops the camera to turn to Louis properly. “You got--”

“…forcibly ejected from a house of worship, yes. By a very tetchy octogenarian named Winifred. She was _unmoved_ by the argument of the brochure.”

A slow, delighted smile is stealing across Vaughn’s face as he considers Louis. “I’m not a tourist, though, so I’m not sure I’ll be able to protect you. I’m, erm, a photographer actually? Dynas Mynach just got a huge grant to restore these historic churches, and I’m doing, like, a before-and-after kind of project on them.”

“Oh, that’s much better! If we have _art_ on our side…”

Vaughn giggles at that -- honest-to-God _giggles_ \-- and Louis can admit in the privacy of his own brain that it’s only partially an act when he grins back.

“Alright, go on, I know you’re dying to explain these buttresses to me,” Louis says.

“Seems a little fast, considering we just met,” Vaughn retorts with a smirk. It takes Louis a few beats to get the pun, and when he does, he groans and puts his hands over his face.

“…oh my _god_ that’s terrible. But alright, if you’re waiting to be _properly introduced_ , I’m William.” Louis sticks his hand out, and Vaughn juggles his camera for a few tenuous moments before taking it with a blinding grin.

“Mike. And the only thing you need to know about buttresses is that they’re _really_ good at taking lateral thrust.” He manages to keep a straight face for approximately half a second before he cracks, the expression on Louis’ face apparently sending him over the edge.

“Seriously? How old are you?” Louis shoves at Mike’s shoulder, and Mike yelps indignantly through his laughter.

“That’s the architectural definition, I swear!”

Louis laughs and shoves him again. They spend the next hour wandering through Saint David’s together, Mike taking desultory photographs whenever he remembers, but mostly talking about his photography project. This is just his first visit, he explains, mostly a fact-finding mission at this point. He’s trying to decide what might be interesting to feature in his project, and see how the light responds to his camera. It’s a long project, he explains: he’s already been in Dynas Mynach for a full month.

Louis quietly notes the consistencies between Mike’s story and what Louis himself knows from his profile. So far, no major red flags. Louis can’t decide whether he’s pleased about that or not. On the one hand, it would make his job easier if he could eliminate one of the possible Harrys. On the other hand, he finds himself liking Mike: his uninhibited laugh, his earnest treatises on historical architecture, and his willingness to stand by his terrible jokes.

And as they slip back outside onto the crowded High Street, Louis finds himself wondering what it would be like if Mike _was_ Harry Styles. What would it be like if they returned to London together; if their easy camaraderie extended to the halls of MI6, to jokes about Liam, to field missions in Paris…

Louis is so distracted he misses whatever Mike says next.

“Sorry?”

“Er, well -- I don’t suppose you’d want to join me on my next research trip? It’s a small chapel a bit outside town, called Saint Albans,” Mike asks hesitantly, once they’ve poked into every hidden space the chapel has to offer.

“Sorry mate, Saint Davids only,” Louis smirks. “I’ve gotta stay true to my brochure.”

“Oh, er, okay.” Mike’s smile turns a bit uncertain at the edges, and Louis can’t bear to hold the joke for any longer.

“Unless this Saint Albans has got a good set of buttresses on ‘im? Might be enough to sway me…”

Mike rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling fully again, and there’s a light flush to his cheeks. “I’ll have to check. Maybe I can text you what I find out?”

“Sure thing, Ansel Adams.”

Mike groans. “I’ve _told_ you, that’s a totally different—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says absently, eyes on the phone that Mike is pulling out of his front pocket. He tracks the way Mike hands it over: easily, like he’s got nothing to hide. Louis takes the opportunity while he’s fiddling with it to surreptitiously check Mike’s other contacts, but nothing jumps out as suspicious in the few seconds he has to scan them. Truthfully, he wasn’t really expecting a smoking gun, but when a man just _gives_ his iPhone over to a spy…

They make plans to tour Saint Albans that Wednesday, and Louis is feeling rather pleased with his progress when he returns to the hotel twenty minutes later. He’s even smiling a bit as he knocks on Frank’s door, but the scowl he’s faced with in return quickly wipes away his good mood.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks, immediately alert. Frank blinks at him and then visibly relaxes.

“Oh, nothing! Sorry! Good day, yeah?”

“Made contact with the target, made real progress towards gaining his trust, even set up future plans…I’d say _yeah_. Good day. You see anything suspicious around us, from your vantage point?”

“Nope, it was all quiet. D’you think he’s the one we’re after?” Frank is staring at Louis intently, and Louis forces a casual shrug.

“Not sure, honestly. ‘S why I’m so glad we were able to arrange another meeting.”

Frank smiles back, but there’s that underlying tension in his posture again. Louis gets the sense that Frank’s not particularly pleased by the progress Louis has made. Louis’ own satisfaction dissipates nearly as quickly, as he silently adds another entry to his growing mental file on Frank’s odd reactions. He still can’t make much sense of it all, but he promises himself that after his next yoga lesson with Tom, Louis will devote his full attention to the mystery of Franklin Blake.

***

“Hey, did your friend ever get ahold of you?” is how Tom greets Louis when he walks into yoga that afternoon. Louis immediately stills.

“My friend?”

“Yeah.” Tom shrugs. “Came in a few hours ago, said he recognized you coming out of the studio last week. Some uni mate, I think. Wanted to know what you were doing in Dynas Mynach of all places. Wanted to know if we were mates, if I knew much about you, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Louis forces his racing mind to slow down enough to answer Tom, who is starting to look a bit uncertain at Louis’ flat reaction to the news.

“Small world,” Louis forces himself to say with a shrug. “Who was it?”

Tom blinks, and then frowns. “You know, I can’t remember? He must’ve told me, but it’s gone right out of my head. I remember he was rather tall…light hair maybe? It’s weird that I can’t remember.”

“Don’t worry,” Louis waves it away with a casual smile that he distinctly does _not_ feel. “I’m sure if he’s really determined, he’ll find me soon enough.”

Louis forces himself through the yoga class as usual, but the entire time, he’s stuck on the problem of this mysterious “friend.” It’s only when Tom practically _beams_ at him at the end of the class that Louis realizes with a start that he’d been too distracted to pretend to be rubbish at yoga. _Shit_.

“See? You’ve already gotten loads better!”

“Maybe I just needed to stop overthinking it,” Louis answers with a wry quirk of his mouth. “Tom, I’ve gotta run, but I’ll text you, yeah? And hey, let me know if my mysterious friend comes back.”

“Course, Will.”

Louis walks back to the hotel as casually and as slowly as he can bear. Frank opens his door on the first knock, mouth already open to ask a question. He’s quelled by a look from Louis, as well as the urgent way that Louis pushes his way into the room.

“We’ve got a serious problem,” Louis opens with as he double-checks the locks on the door. “There’s no chance you were watching surveillance on Tom’s yoga studio this morning, is there?”

There’s a small hitch in Frank’s step as he walks back to his desk, but his voice is casual when he says: “No. I was watching you and Mike the whole time. Why?”

“Check the footage, please,” Louis clips out. Frank starts to pull the files up on his laptop, darting confused glances at Louis as he works. He’s just turning back to his screen when his hands suddenly freeze on the keyboard. Louis is already across the room before he even decides to move.

“Something’s wrong, what is it?”

“The surveillance footage is…something’s happened to it,” Frank announces, his eyebrows crinkling in what Louis recognizes now as a sign of significant anxiety.

“ _What_!?” Louis elbows Frank aside to double-check the laptop himself, only to confirm that the footage cuts directly from 6am to 1pm. The intervening hours are completely gone. Louis feels himself go cold, and Frank must see something of what Louis is feeling on his face, because he asks: “What does this mean?” in a distinctly shakier tone than the one he had before.

“Two options: either someone turned off the cameras, or tampered with the file on the laptop itself. And I’ll be honest with you, Agent Blake, neither one of those is great for us. Either way, someone knows _far_ too much about this operation for my comfort.”

Frank pales and sits down on the bed with a thump, but he does manage to nod for Louis to proceed.

“Has the laptop left your room since one o’clock?” Frank shakes his head no. “How about you -- have you left the room?”

Frank hesitates, and Louis’ heart sinks. “Alright, so what about your own security measures? When you got back to the room, was there any indication that they’d been tripped? Signs of a break-in?”

Frank’s hesitation becomes even more pronounced.

“ _Fuck_.” Louis blows out an explosive breath of air, and just barely restrains himself from kicking the desk chair in frustration. Frank’s shoulders are hunched and he looks close to tears. Louis forces his body to relax.

“It may have seemed like busy-work at the time, but I’m sure you can see now why I asked you to put those in place, and to check them _every_ time you entered the room.” Louis tries to make his voice sound kinder than he feels at the moment. It wouldn’t _actually_ solve anything to shout at this kid, though he does allow himself a moment to silently wish a plague upon Liam’s house. A _really_ nasty one.

“Yes, I understand,” Frank practically whispers, looking wretched. Louis feels another pang of frankly _irritating_ compassion.

“Well. You _are_ still learning,” he allows stiffly. Frank darts a wary glance over at him, and Louis winces. “Too much?”

“Yeah, anything nicer and I’ll _really_ start to worry,” Frank shoots back, but he’s smiling a bit.

“Well don’t spread it around, yeah? You’ll ruin my reputation back in London,” Louis can’t help but tease.

“Spy, remember? We’re good with secrets,” Frank says, quirking another small grin at him. Louis can see the moment it freezes on his face, but before Louis can push for the cause, Frank’s odd expression has turned into a thoughtful frown.

“What do we do about the break-in, though?” Frank asks, and Louis wonders if he imagines a slight hastiness to the subject-change. But Frank’s right: he should be focusing on other priorities.

“At the very least, we’ll need to move hotels right away. I’m also going to call Liam. First a mysterious potential pursuer the first night here, and now this? I’m worried something’s leaked. And I’d feel better if he went back through anything in MI6’s records on this mission that might point to us.”

“Anything like what?” Frank tilts his head like Louis is speaking a foreign language.

“Well, for example, did you notice anything odd when you were assigned? Any improperly secured communications? Anyone who might’ve known details they weren’t strictly authorized to know?”

“Nothing I can think of,” Frank says promptly. Louis shoots him another sharp look, but Frank just shrugs innocently, and once again, Louis is forced to drop it.

***

Their move to a different hotel goes smoothly. Louis’ conversation with Liam? Goes distinctly less so.

Frank’s off in another adjoining room but their current hotel is not terribly sound-proofed. This has resulted in Louis conducting a lengthy and vicious argument in the most soothing tone he can manage.

“This doesn’t _change anything_ , Liam. We always knew someone else was after Styles,” Louis insists quietly -- _again_ \-- a half-hour in. Liam, on the other hand, is under no such volume restrictions.

“Yeah, and now they’re after _you_. You don’t reckon that changes anything!?” Liam squawks into the receiver, and Louis frowns down at his own phone.

“I’m not leaving Zayn’s asset in danger! Zayn was prepared to give his life for Styles. And you want me to just throw that away?” Louis realizes abruptly that his voice has been steadily rising, and he quickly presses his lips together. He listens for any sign that Frank’s overheard in the other room, but everything is quiet. And Liam is still talking.

“I’m more worried about your life right now, Lou! This is like Barcelona all--”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Louis snaps. “I was _fine_ in Barcelona and I’ll be _fine_ now. And maybe you should find your leak before you start telling _me_ how to do my job!”

Louis ends the call to Liam’s furious howl of “ _But I’m literally your boss_!”

When Louis swings open the door between his and Frank’s rooms, still breathing a bit heavily in annoyance, Frank is sprawled on his own bed. He lifts his head lazily at Louis’ entrance.

“New orders?”

“Same as the old orders,” Louis clips out. “But you’ll be pleased to know that we’re past subtle flirting. This needs to get done. The sooner the better.”

Frank opens his mouth, but Louis doesn’t give him the chance to voice whatever he’s about to say. He’s already got a number dialed, his phone to his ear, and one finger up in the universal “wait” signal before Frank can utter a single word. Frank slouches back on the bed, looking irritated.

“Hi, Mike? I’ve just come into some free time, and I was wondering if there’s any chance you’d be up for that trip to Saint Albans? This afternoon? ...Yeah, I know where that is.”

The conversation only takes a few minutes, and by the end of it, Frank’s frown has turned into a full-blown scowl.

“You really think it’s him? Whoever you’re looking for?” he asks almost aggressively, and Louis drops the smiling, borderline-flirty tone he’d adopted for his phone call to snap back:

“Got a one-in-three chance, haven’t I? And by the end of this afternoon, I’ll know for sure.”

Frank takes a breath as though he means to speak, and then visibly reigns himself in.

“Just...be careful Louis,” is what he finally says, oddly subdued. He busies himself with something on his laptop until Louis leaves for his meeting with Mike.

After the oppressive atmosphere of the hotel, Louis is pathetically grateful for the excuse to leave. He knows he’s not any _safer_ , touring chapels with Mike, but he can’t deny how freeing it feels to just get _out_ , to feel like he has room to maneuver, that he isn’t just waiting for some mysterious axe to fall. Louis has always done better with action than waiting, and while his work with MI6 has certainly trained him in patience, it can still grate on missions like this one.

They’re set to meet at the same Costa that Louis had sat in a few days ago, and he feels a funny sense of deja-vu as he carries his tea to a nearby table to wait for Mike to arrive. As he’s waiting, Louis thinks about what Frank had asked earlier: why, when he’d been pressed to make a split-second decision, had Louis gone for Mike first?

He’s slightly worried by the fact that he doesn’t have an easy answer. It feels instinctive somehow, that Mike is linked with this mysterious Harry Styles, and Louis usually has good luck trusting his instincts. But he also can’t deny the sense that there’s some tentative connection between him and Mike -- a feeling like the tension of a rope pulling between them when they’re together -- and Louis worries that it might be clouding his judgment. But with the way things have been escalating -- and the fact that it’s only a matter of time before either their mysterious pursuer catches up with them or Liam does -- Louis has to make a choice. And what he’d told Frank _had_ been the truth: with a one-in-three chance, why _not_ start with Mike?

“Christ it’s cold outside,” Mike announces, dropping heavily into a seat across from Louis. “Mind if we sit in here a bit and warm up before we go adventuring?” And it fits so neatly into Louis’ own plans that he can’t help the broad grin that spreads across his face. Mike smiles happily back, his nose still a little pink from cold.

“A tea addict, are you?” Mike asks, nodding at his drink, and Louis couldn’t ask for a better opening than that.

“A bit,” he shrugs unapologetically. “But to be honest, my real guilty pleasure is lucozade.” Mike startles. It’s admittedly subtle, but Louis is watching very carefully. Mike’s not quite meeting Louis’ eyes, and he seems almost distracted when he says “oh?”

“Yeah, a mate got me into it.” Louis can’t help the way he leans forward slightly in anticipation. “I trust him with suggestions like that, and he _definitely_ came through this time. Can’t get enough of the stuff now.”

If this _isn’t_ Styles, Louis must sound like a total dickhead, but he’s almost certain now. Mike still seems distracted -- there’s a tension to him that, if Louis had to guess, he’d almost call _anxious_ \-- and he’s still looking over Louis’ shoulder. Louis is abruptly worried that Mike/Harry might have caught on to something dangerous. He turns to check behind him, but there’s nothing strange that he can see.

“What about you?” Louis presses, and Mike’s eyes flicker back to meet his. There’s a small pause, almost as if he’s thinking carefully about what to say next. Mike blinks once, opens his mouth, and… _Of course_. That’s precisely when the fire alarm starts blaring.

In the chaos of patrons outside the Costa, Louis almost thinks he sees a familiar head of blond hair, but it’s gone from sight before he can determine if it really had been Frank after all.

“I know a tea shop a few blocks away,” Mike offers, squinting at the dispersing crowd and then smiling at Louis almost shyly. “Like...if you wanted a replacement?”

“Yeah?” Louis says, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, but he’s just grateful nothing about this meeting has been too irrevocably bungled. They start off down the street in companionable silence, Louis thinking longingly of his abandoned cup of tea in the Costa. They’re just cutting through an alley when something -- an out-of-place sound, a glint in the corner of his eye -- snags against Louis’ subconscious. Acting mostly on instinct, Louis pull Mike to the side a split-second before the sound of a gunshot bursts through the alley.

Louis’ confidence about Mike’s identity shoots up even higher. And... _had_ that been Frank in the coffee shop? The question flickers through Louis’ mind in the pause between sound and reaction; by the time the echoes of the shot have dissipated, he’s already shoved it away for later.

“Come on,” Louis hisses, holding on to Mike and staying low. Louis doesn’t hear anything more, and can’t take the time to look back. Instead, he presses on through the alley, Mike gasping at his heels, and ducks through the first door that opens for him.

With relief, Louis recognizes the church that he and Mike had toured together. He’s desperately grateful now that this little chapel is sat between two normal office buildings that all apparently back onto this alley. He and Mike have spent enough time here that Louis reckons he has a pretty accurate mental map of the interior, which will hopefully give them an advantage over their pursuer.

He starts to draw Mike further inside, in the hopes of finding one of the shadowed alcoves that he remembers from a few days ago, but Mike puts up an unexpected resistance. Louis is momentarily distracted from his scan of the church, and tries to tug harder on Mike’s arm, but it has absolutely no effect. Instead, Mike turns away from Louis completely, toward the door they’d just come through.

“Mike, seriously, we need to get away from the door,” Louis urges.

“You just couldn’t resist, could you,” Mike says suddenly, a funny tone to his voice that has Louis glancing up sharply.

“What--?” But Mike isn’t paying attention to him; he’s too busy staring at the lanky, familiar figure who has just slipped in the door of the church. _Frank_ , Louis thinks hazily. He’d wondered -- but never quite believed -- and perhaps it’s shock that prevents him from seeing the gun in Frank’s hands for a few breathless seconds. But Mike has certainly seen it; his whole body has gone still.

“...Me and him, out here all alone,” Mike continues, watching Frank intently. “I know who you are, you know. I’ve known all along.”

 _What does he mean?_ Louis thinks, and wonders why his usually quick brain seems to be failing him. It feels like he’s slipped a bicycle chain somewhere along the way, thoughts whirling furiously but unable to catch on anything well enough to _move_.

“But I didn’t know who _he_ was --” Mike makes a gesture that Louis is distantly surprised to see refers to him. “--or what he knew about _me_. I’ve been waiting you out.”

Frank is oddly unrecognizable in the dim half-light of the church, which has accentuated the shadows of his face into something almost sickly looking. The somewhat hapless expression in his brown eyes has turned sharp, and his mouth is a furious slash in the darkness.

Something about this is important, Louis knows, and he tries to open his mouth -- to clarify, to intervene, _anything_ \-- but his face has become oddly resistant to his brain’s commands. So instead, he watches with increasing confusion and alarm as Mike and Frank face off.

“So today in the cafe...” Frank prompts, but something about his rigid posture suggests to Louis that Frank already knows the answer to his half-asked question.

And sure enough: “Yeah, I saw you,” Mike confirms. “You were trying to listen to our conversation without being seen by _him_. It was clear he doesn’t know about you.”

“And you thought you could --” Frank’s voice is coldly furious, and there’s a deliberation now to the way he’s holding the gun in his hand. A stillness to his body that Louis recognizes. Frank has never seemed more dangerous than at this moment.

Louis needs to move _now_ . It’s up to him to protect Harry. He needs to _do something_.

“Not ‘could.’ I _did_ ,” Mike is saying with something like triumph. And Louis’ body goes numb, suddenly, like it’s no longer put together properly.

Has he gone into shock? Why has he gone into shock? Shouldn’t he be able to remember? It was something to do with Mike, wasn’t it?

But it’s not Mike’s voice that Louis hears, panicked and fading in and out like an old radio signal. It’s Frank’s, and it sounds like he’s just repeating “I’m sorry,” interspersed with Louis’ name, and if Louis could only remember why...

“M’fine,” Louis tries to tell him, blinking as Frank’s wide brown eyes swim into focus above him. He’s got a cell phone in his hand now, Louis registers, where before he’d had a gun.

_The gun, he’d had a gun._

Louis tries to pull himself together enough to struggle. The effort seems to make certain sensations snap back into focus, and Louis can suddenly hear what Frank is saying into the cell phone.

“Tell Agent Payne “lucozade,” alright? Make sure he knows--” Frank’s voice trembles “--Louis found me. But we need emergency services at this location _right now_ . _Please_...”

“Oh. It’s you,” Louis slurs. Darkness is encroaching on him, but he manages to find Frank’s arm with his hand. He bats at it. “Harry. ‘S you.”

“It’s OK, just try to stay awake, alright? _Louis_ \--”

There’s something warm clutching tightly at his fingers.

_Harry’s here. Harry’s been found._

It’s Louis’ last coherent thought before he passes out entirely.


	2. Damn Your Lies

 

Harry sits in a uniquely uncomfortable hospital chair and watches the slow process of Louis Tomlinson waking up. He’s scooted a safe distance away from the bed, nearer to the door. The initial fear and adrenaline of seeing Louis brought unconscious into a hospital had been joined, after a few hours, by the crushing anxiety of wondering how Louis will react to him when he wakes up. And Louis might be a highly trained spy, but Harry reckons that if it _really_ comes down to it, that extra three feet of space will give him a valuable head start over a recent poisoning victim.

Louis’ eyes flutter open, medication blurring their usually acute ice-blue, and Harry scrunches his legs up into the chair self-consciously. The movement must catch Louis’ attention. He focuses in on Harry, more quickly than a man with several hundred milligrams of knockout drugs still coursing through his system rightly should. Harry can see Louis’ thought process as though he were narrating it out loud: the way he glances from Harry’s newly dark hair; to his eyes, green now that he’s removed the color contact lenses; to Harry’s defensive posture in the chair. But it still takes Harry by surprise when Louis speaks.

“So. Spy Kid.” His voice is raspier than usual, but there’s still a warmth to it that catches Harry off-guard. “Been holdin’ out on me?”

“Erm--” Harry starts. He’s cut off by Louis’ halfhearted motion for the water cup by his bed, and Harry jumps into action. Louis drinks a bit, eyes never leaving Harry’s face, and Harry fidgets under Louis’ extended scrutiny.

“Y’know Harry, I can count on one hand the number of people who’ve fooled me as well as you did. And most of _them_ are dead.”

“I’m _so_ sorry, Louis--”

Louis blinks at him. “ _Sorry_ ? I’m trying to say I’m _impressed_ with you, you knob.”

“I got you poisoned,” Harry explains miserably. Louis  _has_ been quite unconscious until very recently, and so might not have fully registered what actually happened in the church in Dynas Mynach.

Louis tilts his head, his eyes going slightly distant, like he's thinking it all through.

"No," he finally says, with growing confidence in his own memories. "It was that dickhead Vaughn, wasn't it? He was the one working with Cowell? He must have poisoned me, and you must have seen it, and come after us. What'd he do, put something in my tea when I wasn't looking?"

Harry nods. "But--"

“So I'd say you saved me,” Louis interrupts, his tired eyes crinkling into a smile that sends a rush of pleasure through Harry’s chest, however undeserved it might be. He clumsily tries to cover it up by calling for a nurse, but he’s not entirely sure he succeeds.

Louis suffers through the resulting check with barely concealed impatience, and the moment the nurse leaves, he’s leaning forward in bed and raising one expectant eyebrow at Harry. Even recently drugged half out of his mind, he still looks like a king lying in state and imperiously demanding compliance from his subjects. Harry finds he doesn’t mind it as much as he would’ve thought.

“Well? How did you do it?” Louis urges, apparently too impatient to wait for Harry to start unprompted.

“You really want to hear it now? Don’t you want to rest?” Harry asks uncertainly, but Louis just snorts.

“You haven’t known me that long, Harry, so I’ll forgive the stupid question. Go on, tell me everything.”

And so Harry does.

He tells Louis about finishing his degree at LSE and going to work for Deutsche Bank in London, about the first time he noticed something odd in one of his assigned accounts, and about how Zayn had contacted him soon after. He explains that he hadn’t fully realized what he’d found until Zayn was telling him to run, to make his way to Dynas Mynach and wait for Zayn to find him. Zayn hadn’t known who within the agency had been compromised, and he had insisted that Harry couldn’t trust anyone.

Harry tells Louis about the tricky bit of code Zayn had set up on MI6’s servers before he disappeared: an alert to notify Harry if his name appeared on any MI6 communications, which would hopefully give him a head-start if anyone got too close. He’d learned through Zayn’s alert that an agent named Louis Tomlinson was searching for him, and that the Cardiff Office was sending a junior agent named Franklin Blake to assist.

Harry confesses to being terrified -- unsure whether Louis was someone he could trust -- but he still can’t fully explain why he hadn’t run like Zayn had ordered, and had instead hatched a desperate, _stupid_ scheme to investigate Louis himself. He talks Louis through the process of using Zayn’s back door program to cancel Liam’s instructions to Cardiff. Harry had been banking on there still being enough chaos in London to distract Liam from checking in, but it honestly would have been _so easy_ for his entire disguise to come crashing down around him.

He talks about being confused, frightened, out of his depth, and increasingly certain that it was _Louis_ , rather than Harry, who was in the most danger in Dynas Mynach. But he’d been equally _uncertain_ about how to warn Louis properly. He’d settled for trying to conduct his own shadow investigation of the three possible Harrys. Clearly someone was keeping an eye on Louis, and the three not!Harrys were the only people he’d had any significant contact with.

Harry _doesn’t_ tell Louis about the flashes of an emotion almost like jealousy that he’d felt as Louis had flirted his way through Dynas Mynach, or the slightly pettier sabotage that he’d sometimes indulged in, but he worries that Louis can tell anyway.

In an uncharacteristic show of self-restraint, Louis barely interrupts, just watches steadily as Harry talks. Louis probably gathers a lot more information from that than Harry intends to reveal, but Harry finds that he doesn’t mind as much as he would’ve thought. It’s surprisingly cathartic just to _say_ it all, finally, after weeks of holding in so many secrets and being so afraid.

“I wasn’t exaggerating before,” Louis finally remarks. “What you did…it’s very impressive.”

Harry flushes and opens his mouth to deny it again, but before he can say anything, the door bursts open and two men practically tumble through it.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Louis yelps. He’d shot up from the bed at the noise, before immediately wincing and sinking back down onto his pillow. “Don’t either of you know better than to surprise a murder victim?”

“ _Attempted_ murder, don’t be dramatic,” one of the men retorts, but the soft vowels of his Irish accent are unnaturally clipped with worry. His eyes track over Louis’ body as though reassuring himself that it’s still mostly intact. “Didn’t we talk about this? What did I say before you left, Louis?”

Louis mumbles something, looking younger and more mutinous than Harry thinks he’s ever seen him.

“I said ‘Don’t pull a Barcelona,’ Lou! And what d’you go and do?”

“Okay, hold on--” Louis starts, but the man waves an arm to encompass the entire hospital set-up in one exaggerated gesture.

“ _Barcelona_ ,” he concludes darkly.

“What--” The other three men in the room whirl to stare at him, and Harry coughs awkwardly. “Erm. What happened in Barcelona?”

“Nothing important,” Louis says, before hastily changing the subject. “Lads, meet Harry Styles. Harry? This is Niall Horan and that’s Liam Payne. Otherwise known as Mum and Dad.”

Both Liam and Niall burst into vocal protestations at that. Harry can’t fully hear either of them over the other, but he thinks Liam is yelping something about “-- _my job!_ ” while Niall is biting out a very cutting insult in a language Harry doesn’t recognize.

“Look, I don’t fully remember what happened during my meeting with Vaughn -- or whoever he really is -- but no doubt I was very professional and cautious the whole time,” Louis cuts in, and then shoots Harry a conspiratorial wink that makes Harry wonder how much Louis has _actually_ forgotten. The others turn to Harry for confirmation, and Harry flushes under their scrutiny.

“Erm. Yes?” he tries, and Louis immediately groans.

“ _This_ is the man who successfully evaded Britain’s finest!” He flings a dramatic hand over his eyes and then subsides into his pillows as though overcome by the shame.

“Apparently there are some lies even he can’t sell,” Liam offers, very dryly. Louis straightens back up with a frown, and the whole argument looks to be starting up all over again, but Liam hastily continues: “Lou, I’ll take your full and _truthful_ report on Dynas Mynach later, but first we need to discuss next steps.”

“I’ll just…” Harry makes a vague motion toward the door, feeling abruptly out of place, but Louis gives him another tiny smile and says, “Please stay, Agent Styles.” Harry sinks back into his uncomfortable chair with a thump, and tries to play it off like he’s not _entirely_ at Louis’ mercy. Because he’s not. _He’s not_.

There’s an awkward pause where Louis, Liam, and Niall all glare at each other and Harry tries very hard to turn invisible, before Liam announces, a bit stiffly: “Your doctors have updated me on your condition.” He straightens his shoulders, shrugging on his official MI6 role like a coat. “They say it may take anywhere from seven to forty-eight for the poison to leave your system entirely, and you’ll have to stay here under observation until then. But in the meantime, Lou--”

“You’re worried about Zayn,” Louis finishes for him, nodding sharply. “Me too. Vaughn’s just lost Harry to MI6, so finding Zayn is his next best option. And if he knew about Dynas Mynach--”

“We can’t assume any of Zayn’s boltholes are safe,” Liam agrees, clearly troubled.

“Alright,” Louis says, struggling to sit up against his pillows. “Give me an hour and an untainted cup of tea, and I’ll--”

Before he can tell them what, exactly, he’ll do, the room has descended into uproar once more.

“You _stopped breathing_ in the _ambulance,_ ” Harry finds himself near-shouting, somewhat nonsensically. Liam, meanwhile, is shaking his head and saying something to Louis in a low tone that Harry can’t hear over Niall’s yelp that “It really is Barcelona all over again!” He’s pointing an accusing finger at Louis as though they’re both in the denouement of an Agatha Christie novel.

Louis suddenly makes a soft, pained sound and crumples back against his pillows, which successfully brings all sound in the room to an abrupt halt.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks into the silence, and resists the urge to do something idiotic like plump Louis’ pillows. He’s not a nurse in a war film, _for god’s sake_.

“Fine, actually,” Louis says. He straightens easily and shoots Harry another wink. “Short of throwing my IV against the wall, I reckoned that was the easiest way to bring peace back to my sickroom.”

“Dickhead,” Liam says fondly. “But you’re still not going after Zayn.”

Louis purses his mouth, and there’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows that Harry recognizes. It’s a sign that Louis has reached the limit of his “fucking around” capacity -- always a mysterious and unpredictable boundary -- and that he’ll get _extremely_ annoyed if his directions aren’t unquestioningly followed from here on out.

“We don’t want another repeat of the Harry debacle—sorry Harry, but it _was_ – which means we need someone who _knows_ Zayn. Who can get into all the places he’d run to. And if it was someone who’d...say...spent a lot of time in the past week with the bastard who might be tracking Zayn? Wouldn’t that be a bonus? I’m telling you, it doesn’t make sense for me to stay behind.”

“No, it’s—I’ll go,” Liam sighs, drooping a little under the weight of this added responsibility.

“Don’t be stupider than you can help, Liam,” Louis retorts instantly, and Harry gapes a bit at Louis’ nerve -- talking to their boss like that -- but Liam only rolls his eyes and takes it in stride. “The London Office is still in chaos, you’re needed there. Our Harry managed to impersonate another MI6 agent for a _week_ without anyone noticing; clearly there’s still a lot to be done.”

Liam winces, but Harry can see him wavering. Even Niall, who Harry was certain would be loudly voicing objections, is perched quietly on the edge of Louis’ bed and letting Louis and Liam argue it out.

“Someone needs to go with you,” Liam warns. It’s clearly both a concession and a last-ditch attempt to persuade Louis out of his decision. Harry remembers how disgruntled Louis had been at first to have him as an assistant. But if Liam thought it would sway Louis this time, he’s proven wrong by the prompt way that Louis says: “Done. I’ll take Harry.”

And the room erupts into protests once more.

“But I’m not a field agent!” Harry realizes his own voice has risen hysterically above the others’ objections. He also realizes he’s wringing his hands, and he forces them to stay still in his lap. At least he’d managed to stop himself before voicing his _real_ objection, which embarrassingly, would’ve been more like a whiny cry of _but you don’t even like me_.

“Really?” Louis asks, raising his eyebrows. “Because the extensive debriefing you gave me, in this very room not a half-hour ago, would suggest otherwise.”

“What are you _talking_ about? That was a disaster! I told you—”

“Have a little faith, Styles. I’m not _actively terrible_ at my job. And although I’ll readily admit I cocked up the Wales thing, I _do_ usually know what I’m doing.”

“Big talk from a man who was unconscious an hour ago,” Liam inserts grumpily.

“Please,” Louis snorts. “Vaughn’s drugs didn’t do any major damage. It was like... _barely_ an injury.”

“I still don’t think--” Liam starts, but Louis is already interrupting.

“Harry comes with me, or I don’t go at all,” Louis says primly.

“I didn’t want you to go in the first place!” Liam shouts, thoroughly exasperated, but Harry can already see clearly how this argument will end. The evidence is clear, in the squaring of Louis’ shoulders, the way he’s tilted his chin up and even his blinking has gone slow and even and controlled. So Harry decides to give in before Louis hurts himself or Liam in the process of confirming the inevitable.

“Alright, fine. I’ll—I’ll go with you.”

“Brilliant,” Louis says, and gives him another of those grins that feels like it’s lighting Harry up from the inside out.

Niall wriggles a little mutinously at the foot of Louis’ bed, but Louis cuts off his potential objections with a sharp gesture.

“ _Don’t_ say anything about Barcelona. Me ‘n’ Harry are gonna be great!”

“Is anyone ever going to explain what happened in Barcelona?” Harry asks.

“Erm, classified,” Louis coughs, and Niall frowns in confusion.

“What? No it’s n-mrph.”

There is a brief but violent struggle on the bed. It must finally be the last straw for whatever nurse is responsible for Louis, because before Harry can rethink his clearly _stupid_ decision to accompany Louis on an _honest-to-God spy mission_ , they’re all being unceremoniously ejected from the room.

***

When Harry comes back to the hospital early the next morning, Liam and Louis are both settled in Louis’ bed, tugging a beleaguered folder back and forth between them. They look thoroughly comfortable in each others’ space. Standing in the doorway watching them bicker, Harry feels jealousy spike hot in his stomach. He knows it’s stupid to be jealous of Louis’ friends. Maybe if Louis hadn’t made it _so clear_ in Dynas Mynach how irritating he found Harry’s presence -- if he hadn’t found it so difficult to be friendly to Harry, yet so easy to flirt with _suspects_ \-- if he’d ever given any sign --

In the next second, Louis has glanced up and seen Harry lurking miserably in the doorway. Louis’ face does something complicated and inscrutable at the sight of him, but he immediately shimmies over to make room for Harry on the bed as well.

“The best way to keep Zayn safe is to warn him electronically, but there’s no guarantee he’ll get the message in time. So Liam will be working back-channels, while we run through this list of locations in person.” Louis hands a piece of paper from the folder to Harry. “It’s always possible Zayn went somewhere even me ‘n’ Liam don’t know about, but I don’t think so. He left you in Dynas Mynach; he’s been dropping breadcrumbs for us to follow.”

“Milan, Sao Paulo...seriously? These are the places Zayn chose to set up safe houses? Is he a spy or a _model_?” Harry blurts out, scanning over the list in his hands.

“On many occasions, he’s been both,” Louis laughs. “Li, do you remember--”

“That club in Tel Aviv? Unfortunately, yes.”

“-- and Miami. Why is Miami last?” Harry asks, still reading through the list.

“Er…no reason.” Louis looks shifty.

“Lou’s not exactly welcome in America,” Liam puts in, sounding very smug about it, and Louis punches his shoulder in retaliation.

“You got _banned_ from the United States?” Harry yelps. “And we’re planning to go anyway!?”

“No! The CIA and I just have a...rocky relationship. And if they knew I was in the country, they’d overreact, _as usual_. Because they’re a massive bag of cocks who think they’re more intimidating than they are.”

“You have _a rocky relationship_. With the CIA,” Harry repeats, still stuck on the first part of Louis’ rambling non-explanation, and Liam grins.

“He used to work for them.”

“Yes, well, we’ve all made decisions we regret,” Louis snaps. “And anyway, shouldn’t _you_ be grateful? If I hadn’t saved _your_ arse in DC...”

“...and yet, somehow, _I’m_ not the one who gets a shadowy escort the moment he steps off the plane.”

“Believe me, I know.” Louis retorts, sounding thoroughly disgusted with the whole situation. “It’s _so_ unfair that just because _they_ have trust issues, _I’m_ the one who has to suffer for it.”

“An espionage agency with trust issues?” Liam asks innocently. “You’re right, it’s completely absurd.”

“So anyway, that’s why we’re going to Miami last,” Louis concludes, turning back to Harry. He’s been watching this entire exchange with no small amount of confusion, as well as a hollow sensation that feels uncomfortably close to that jealousy from before.

“And how will we find him, if he’s there?” Harry wonders aloud. Louis and Liam exchange an amused glance, and _alright._ Now it’s just getting _annoying_.

“Zayn’s an excellent spy in a lot of respects,” Louis answers for them both. “But he doesn’t really know the meaning of ‘laying low.’ He feels most protected in spaces that are difficult to access, rather than necessarily anonymous. Which means that if he’s hiding anywhere on this list, I’ll be able to find him.”

Harry must look dubious, because Louis laughs and pats him on the shoulder.

“Relax. It’ll practically be a vacation!”

***

The next morning, they fly into Zurich and then board a train for the remainder of their journey to an Alpine resort town called Saint-Lazare, which Harry has never even heard of, and which Louis assures him is one of Zayn’s favorite places in the world. Harry tries not to gape like a tourist, but he’s never been to Switzerland before -- has barely been out of _England_ before Zayn swept him up in this ridiculous spying game -- so he plays it very cool and resists the urge to stare too obviously out the compartment window as their train makes its way through the Alps. He thinks he’s gotten away with his deception, too, until Louis quirks his mouth into a small, secretive smile.

“You know, the span of track between Chur and Saint-Lazare is considered one of the most beautiful train views in the world.”

Harry flushes. “Should’ve known I couldn’t fool you.”

“Well, I cheated a bit, and read the personnel file we finally recovered from Zayn’s purge.”

“You must think it’s pretty stupid to be this excited, after all the traveling you’ve done,” Harry mumbles, unable to keep his eyes from sliding away from the view and toward Louis, seated across from him.

Louis frowns, scrunching the bridge of his nose in a way that Harry refuses to label as “cute,” and turns to face Harry properly. He gives Harry a long, assessing stare, and then says: “You know, there’s an airstrip in Saint-Lazare; if you have the resources for a private plane, as MI6 does, it’s much faster and more convenient to fly.”

“O-kay?” Harry tries.

Louis huffs, and keeps his eyes trained on something out the window even as he says briskly: “I’m saying that I chose the train, alright? I’d heard it was a nice view, so...you should enjoy it. If you want.”

Harry blinks at him. Louis scrunches up his face like he’s annoyed, but there’s a light flush of color dusting his cheekbones, and he’s suddenly shuffling through his bag as though it’s the most important task in the world. Harry can’t help the stupid grin that spreads over his face as he watches the top of Louis’ _very_ intent head. And then, since Louis _has_ given him permission of a sort, he climbs to his knees on the train seat and leans his face against the window for the rest of the trip.

They arrive in Saint-Lazare around dinnertime. Harry is a bit jumpy, half-expecting a pursuit like their first night in Dynas Mynach, but they reach the hotel without incident. Even Louis looks a bit more relaxed than he ever did in Dynas Mynach, and Harry’s not sure whether it’s due to the location -- which is clearly more familiar to him than the small Welsh town -- or due to the more manageable parameters of his assignment. Either way, it’s with an attitude bordering on cheerful that Louis concludes his standard sweep of their new hotel room by poking around in Harry’s suitcase.

“Isn’t that supposed to be mine?” Harry asks from his sprawled-out position on his bed. He considers getting up to chase Louis off, but he’s more tired than expected by all the intensity of the past few days, and it seems much easier to just be outraged from afar.

“It’s not like you packed it,” Louis points out, which is fair. On their way out of London, Liam had handed him a suitcase packed by an MI6 stylist, because _that’s_ apparently a thing. But according to Louis, “as fashionable as you might be, love, there’s no way your closet is equipped for this.” And as he watches Louis pull out a cascade of Gucci and Saint Laurent, McQueen and Lanvin -- each receiving an unimpressed sniff at most -- Harry has to admit that he might’ve been right.

“Okay, what the fuck,” Louis says abruptly, startling Harry from the light doze he must have fallen into. Louis has gotten hold of a black, wide-brimmed hat that he’s turning around in his hands, as though he’s expecting it to transform into something else if he tilts it at the right angle.

“How did that even fit in the suitcase?” Harry asks sleepily, and it makes Louis look up from his contemplation of the hat, his eyes softening a bit when he meets Harry’s.

“An old spy trick, I’ll teach you sometime.” He shoots a tiny smile at Harry before turning his attention back to the hat. “But what the hell did the stylist expect you to do with this?”

“Wear it, I suspect.” Harry yawns. “I like it.”

“You--really?” Louis looks between Harry and the hat, his eyebrows rising higher with every pass. “You don’t think it’s a little James Bay?”

“What’re you saying, _Lewis_? That I’m not as cool as James Bay? Think I can’t pull it off?” Harry shoots back.

“Sorry mate, but international music star, you are not. I’m sure you have many other excellent qualities.”

Harry gasps in mock outrage. “Alright, just for that, I’m wearing the hat tonight.”

“Hang on--”

“Now it’s a matter of honor. It’s either the hat, or a duel at dawn, and I’ve already shot at you once this week.”

“Oh, we’re OK to joke about that now?” Louis asks with a wry twist of his mouth, but his eyes are laughing, and after a few seconds in which he regards the hat with a truly poisonous look, he sighs and relents.

“If you insist…” He dives back into Harry’s suitcase with renewed fervor, pulling out a motley collection of dark items that he dumps into Harry’s hands. “Try it with these.”

Harry stares at what Louis has selected for him. “Wait, this vest doesn’t button all the way -- is there even a shirt here?”

“Hey, you set the terms, I did the best I could. Go Bay or go home, right?”

“What does that even -- _Louis_ \--” Harry squeaks, but Louis’ only response is to shove him unceremoniously into the toilet to change.

Harry emerges, still grumbling, a few moments later, to find that Louis has also changed in his absence, into a light navy suit that fits him gorgeously, the sharp lines of his shoulders softening into a gentle curve at his waist that makes Harry suddenly desperate to fit his hands there. And it’s not that Harry didn’t know Louis was fit. _God_ , of course he did. He’d noticed it first thing, even with Louis tired and tense, coming off a 2am train. But Harry realizes for the first time how much of Louis’ appearance in Dynas Mynach had been due to the role he was playing: hoodies and plaid all carefully calculated to blend into a crowd.

This is different. This is Louis standing out. And it’s _blinding._

“Oh my God, you look like James Bond,” Harry whispers, and then immediately claps his hands over his mouth in mortification. He can feel himself flushing crimson, but Louis only laughs.

“Which one, though? Better not say Moore,” Louis warns, turning to face Harry properly. He pauses, eyes flickering down Harry’s body, and when he raises them again to Harry’s face, there’s an odd heat to his expression that Harry desperately hopes he’s not misinterpreting.

“Not bad, Styles. A bit of chaos, a bit of calm…”

“Oh shut up,” Harry mumbles, turning -- if possible -- an even deeper shade of red. “You haven’t even told me where we’re going, you know.”

“Gabi Weber,” Louis says absently, double-checking the gun he’s hidden in the folds of his suit. He talks at the same time that he leads them out the door of their hotel room. “A German heiress who owns a club here in Saint-Lazare. She’s a good friend. If Zayn came here, Gabi would be the first to know.”

Now that Harry knows to look for it, he can see the way Louis’ body tenses the moment they step onto the street, and he has to shove away a familiar feeling of shame at his own carelessness in Dynas Mynach. They spend the brief walk in wary silence: the streets of Saint-Lazare are crowded with tourists and brightly lit, even at night, but the crowds also mean that they’ll struggle to identify a pursuer before he’s right on top of them.

Thankfully, the walk to Gabi Weber’s club is brief, and before Harry can become too paranoid, Louis is leading him through a nondescript door and into a dark, narrow hallway. There has been nothing to indicate a club -- no sign, no tourists out front -- and despite himself, despite _everything_ , Harry feels a flash of panic.

“I thought you said--”

“I said that Zayn favors the inaccessible,” Louis interrupts, his smile flashing in the darkness. “So. Welcome to the least accessible place in Saint-Lazare.” Even as he says it, he’s breezing past a bouncer with nothing more than a nod, and whisking Harry through another door into the club itself. It’s small and dimly lit, but elegant nevertheless. All sleek lines and a bar that gleams even in the semi-darkness. There’s an intimacy to the space, an invitational quality to its shadowed corners, as though they’re meant less to obscure what its patrons are getting up to, and more as a way to seduce them deeper.

“Louis!” Gabi Weber descends upon them both almost immediately in a whirlwind of curls and couture. Her vivid red lipstick is curved into a genuine smile as she says something to Louis in rapid German. Louis’ own response sends her into peals of bright laughter. Louis glances at Harry, and switches seamlessly into English.

“Gabi, this is my friend Harry. I told him he couldn’t leave Saint-Lazare without visiting at least once.”

Gabi smiles warmly at Harry and holds out her hand to shake. She’s a short woman with seemingly boundless energy. Her outfit looks very feathery and very expensive, but she wears it as easily as if it were a pair of overalls. There are hints of elegant tattoos sprinkled around her body -- one curving up from her nearly-bare shoulder, one on her wrist -- but Harry doesn’t have time to look at them properly. There’s an effortlessness to the way she inhabits space; to the way she flirts instinctively, rather than with intent; and to the way that danger lurks around her edges. It’s all instantly familiar to Harry, and equally obvious why Louis likes her. No doubt they each see themselves in the other.

Gabi gives Harry’s hand a firm shake, and she flashes him a cheeky wink before turning back to Louis.

“What a liar you are! I know exactly why you’ve come. I’m very annoyed by it.” Her eye-roll is exaggerated enough to earn her a snort of laughter, even as Louis plays along.

“What? Why?”

“Thanks to you, I owe that _Arschloch_ fifty Euro. I bet him you’d arrive two weeks ago to drag him home. Did you have to be so lazy, Louis?”

Louis shrugs easily. “Blame young Harold here, not me. He was a very capable distraction.”

“ _Was he_.” Gabi gives Harry an appraising look. “I see. Well, Zayn won’t be here for a few hours yet. So you can enjoy your distraction for a bit longer, hm? Have a drink, start working off that fifty Euro debt.”

Louis gasps and puts a dramatic hand to his chest. “Paying for my drinks? Here? You wound me, Gabriele.”

“One of these days, _Liebling,_  the memory of Geneva will no longer work as currency. I _am_ trying to run a business,” Gabi laughs, before shooing them both off toward the bar.

“What happened in Geneva?” is just the first of many questions Harry wants to ask. Given Louis’ easy deflections in the past, Harry’s still quite shocked when Louis actually answers this one.

“Just bit of light kidnapping,” Louis says with a wolfish grin.

“Um. Were you the kidnapper? Or, like, the kidnappee?”

“What? Oh wow, you must _really_ have a low opinion of me. No, Gabi was the one who was kidnapped. She got seduced by the wrong girl -- it was very nearly an international incident. Me ‘n’ Zayn were sent in to defuse the situation. We saved Gabi’s life, and we haven’t let her forget it since.” Louis shrugs -- a sort of “kidnapping, what can you do?” gesture -- before turning to strike up a conversation with the bartender in French. Before Harry can fully process all the information he’s just received, Louis is pressing a tall cocktail glass into his hands while holding its twin in his own.

“Gabi’s not wrong,” Louis starts. He leans against the bar and sweeps the club under cover of sipping his cocktail. “It’ll probably be ages before Zayn deigns to show up. But free drinks in a private club -- not a bad place for a stakeout, right?” He’s smiling at Harry again, one of those warm, crinkle-eyed smiles that Harry’s grown to covet so unreasonably.

Harry’s hit with the sudden realization that, although Louis clearly adores Gabi, he still hadn’t smiled like _that_ until just now. That knowledge, along with the _extremely_ high alcohol content of the drink Louis has just handed him, is making him feel tremendously unsteady, dizzy with something like nerves. He gulps down the rest of his drink, probably too quickly to be wise.

It’s difficult to make good choices with Louis’ eyes on him as they are, knowing and laughing in equal measure. It’s difficult to stand here at all.

“Let’s dance, yeah?” Harry asks, slamming his empty glass down on the bar. It’s a stupid impulse, and Harry regrets it almost immediately, as it’s become increasingly clear that Louis Tomlinson is _way_ out of his league.

Not to mention, he flirts like it’s his job. Or rather -- flirting is _actually his job_ . It really shouldn’t bother Harry so much that Louis is good at that job. That Louis can turn certain things -- feelings, interest, attraction -- on and off so easily. Sure, Harry can _hide_ himself when he needs to. Dynas Mynach proved that. But Harry knows he struggles to fake things he doesn’t inherently feel. And once he’s stopped hiding, it can be extremely difficult for him to pull back. Harry worries that he may have been drawn out too far already.

Especially if it doesn’t mean for Louis what it means for him.

Louis pushes off the bar, looking delighted with Harry’s suggestion. He rests one hand easily against Harry’s lower back to guide him towards the dance floor. While Harry might have been the one to suggest dancing, there’s no mistake about who’s leading the way now. The pressure of Louis’ fingertips against his back are warm and grounding, and Harry is helpless to resist moving wherever Louis wants him to go.

They find space easily. It’s still relatively early and the club hasn’t yet filled to capacity. Louis doesn’t pull Harry closer immediately. Instead, he runs his fingertips from Harry’s lower back, to whisper against his waist and down his arm, before circling Harry’s wrist loosely. That light contact is the only tether between them.

Harry tries to let the force of the music sweep away all the stupid things he feels about Louis’ hands on his skin.

Louis dances beautifully, because of-bloody- _course_ he does. It’s all so effortless for him: the twist of his hips, the way his intense blue eyes and slight smirk hold Harry captivated, the way he slowly reels Harry closer into him with nothing but light nudges against the pulse point of his captured wrist. They’re still not touching otherwise, but Harry can feel the heat of him all down his body. It’s like there’s an electrical current arcing in the gap that still exists between the two of them, filling Harry with a dizzy sort of charge.

Louis’ smile is edging wider with every pulse of music. He looks like he’s barely interested in the dance at all, but Harry tracks a bead of sweat that glides down the hollow of his collarbone, and knows that the tight control Louis is maintaining is taking more effort than he’s letting on.

That knowledge only makes Harry more desperate for it, but Louis clearly refuses be rushed. He slips backward every time Harry sways too close to him. But then the music changes to something a little slower, with a heavy bass that thrums through Harry’s body like a heartbeat, and Louis _finally_ closes that last bit of distance between them. He glides into Harry’s space as though he’s made to fit there, slotting their hips together and running the hand not on Harry’s wrist down to rest low on his waist, just skimming the curve of his arse and slipping lower with every roll of his hips.

The intensity of so much contact after an eternity of anticipation sends Harry reeling. He lets out a little moan that he _desperately_ hopes the club is loud enough to cover. Louis’ body is as warm as Harry suspected. Harry yearns to touch every part of him at once, until it occurs to him with a jolt that he _can_.

Something about that realization knocks him out of the passivity he’d fallen into, letting Louis maneuver him, letting Louis control their pace. Harry surges forward and draws Louis even closer into him with a filthy twist of his hips. He’s rewarded by a huff -- almost a gasp -- against his ear.

Louis gives as good as he gets, and Harry forgets that they’re in public. He forgets all about the club, and Zayn, and their purpose in coming. He can’t even hear the music anymore. The only sounds that are relevant -- the sounds that send his entire body thrumming like a tuning fork -- are the breathy little hums that Louis makes as he noses into the skin at Harry’s neck. Harry’s so hard it would almost be embarrassing, if not for how clearly he can feel the line of Louis’ cock against him too, the pressure of their bodies so exquisitely insufficient for what Harry wants.

He’s almost reached his limit -- is about give up on self-control entirely and haul them both into the toilets -- when Louis straightens so abruptly that Harry nearly topples forward.

“There he is. Early for once in his bloody life!”

The spell of the dance is broken. Even so, it takes Harry a few beats to even recognize Zayn, who’s making his way across the dance floor with a huge grin on his face.

In the weeks since Zayn had left, Harry has thought a lot about the conditions under which they’d meet again. Harry’d been prepared for something like this, for Harry himself to be in _way_ over his head, and for Zayn to appear magically to rescue him. It had even become a bit of a daydream at times, when he’d been stuck in Dynas Mynach with no idea what to do next.

And yet, right now, Harry could cheerfully murder him for it.

Louis bounds towards Zayn as though he _hadn’t_ just been two zippers and a misplaced sense of decency away from fucking Harry where they stood. Harry, meanwhile, is still coming to terms with the fact that he’s about to have a work conversation while blindingly hard.

“What the fuck is Harry doing here?” is the first thing Zayn asks, and Harry flushes, the question coming too close to what he himself has been asking.

“Oh, that’s very nice. Not even a hello? After all our trouble coming to Middle-of-Nowhere Switzerland to rescue you?”

“It’s ninety minutes from London by private jet. And you didn’t look very troubled,” Zayn says with a glance at Harry. Louis colors at that, and Harry’s distantly grateful that Louis is finally reacting in _some_ way, even if it was technically Zayn who’d provoked it. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question,” Zayn continues. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Let’s talk in private, yeah?” And with that, Louis turns Zayn toward the exit. Zayn pauses to shoot another inscrutable look back at Harry, but soon the two of them are too busy bickering to pay him much attention. Harry takes a moment to adjust himself in his trousers before trailing after them.

They’re intercepted at the exit by Gabi, a tightness to the corners of her eyes that wasn’t present earlier in the evening. She gives Louis a prolonged hug, and from Harry’s vantage point behind him, he can see that she takes the opportunity to whisper something urgent into his ear. Louis shrugs and says something in German. It doesn’t seem to assuage Gabi’s anxiety. She still looks troubled when she turns to bid Harry goodbye.

Once they’re out on the street, and Louis has done a quick check to ensure that nobody is near enough to hear them, he informs Zayn and Harry in a low voice: “Gabi’s heard through her contacts that a man arrived in Saint-Lazare yesterday looking for Zayn. I think we can safely assume it’s Vaughn.”

Zayn swears under his breath and subtly picks up his pace. His flat is tucked onto a side street about five minutes from Gabi’s club, and upon reaching it, Zayn takes a key out of his pocket and does a familiar-looking check around the wooden door. Once he’s satisfied that the flat hasn’t been disturbed in his absence, he leads them both in.

The innocuousness of the building had left Harry completely unprepared for the interior. Harry finds himself staring around an enormous living room, filled with smooth wooden beams and deeply colored rugs. Zayn flips on the lights, which better illuminates the exquisite craftsmanship of the wooden furniture that populates the space, as well as an indecently large fireplace across the room. Harry hopes he isn’t gaping too obviously as Zayn leads them further into the flat, but he thinks he catches a hint of Louis’ amused smile before he’s turning back to Zayn.

In a few short minutes, Louis sketches out what had happened in Dynas Mynach, and why they had become concerned -- rightfully, it turns out -- that Vaughn would pursue Zayn next.

“You know you never answered my first question, right?” Is the first thing Zayn asks once Louis is done speaking. They’re all seated in unfairly comfortable armchairs in the living room. Zayn had busied himself pouring drinks as Louis talked, and he swirls his now. “If you brought Harry in safely, what the hell is he doing here, now? No offense, Harry. I’m very glad to see you, but you have to admit it’s reckless to put you back in harm’s way when we know Vaughn is searching for both of us.”

Harry just shrugs in response, because that’s very true. But Louis, to his surprise, fiddles with his drink in an uncharacteristically awkward manner, and mumbles something Harry doesn’t catch.

“A _field test_ \--” Zayn bursts out, his mouth hanging open comically. “Hang on. Louis, are you _training_ him?” He whirls to Harry and demands: “Is he training you!?”

“You must’ve noticed his aptitude--” Louis begins, but Zayn waves a furious hand at him.

“Shut up! Answer the question, Harry.”

Harry hadn’t really considered it before. It’s true that immediately upon their arrival in Dynas Mynach, Louis had been tense and quiet, clearly resenting the need to slow down for a less-experienced agent. But by the end of their mission in Wales, as they worked together in the hotel, Louis had started interspersing his instructions with little explanations of Agency protocol, or breakdowns of his own thought processes, delivered casually enough that they could be mistaken as tangents. And when he’d asked Harry later -- equally casually -- about something he’d said before, it had been easy to attribute the question to mere forgetfulness. Which is so thoroughly out-of-character for Louis that Harry can’t believe he didn’t see it before. But yes -- Louis has absolutely been training him.

Some of this realization must show on Harry’s face, because Zayn narrows his eyes even further, and whirls on Louis.

“Zayn,” Louis sighs, rubbing his forehead wearily. “Leave it.”

Harry’s expecting Zayn to offer up any number of objections to Harry’s sudden ascension to Spy-in-Training, beginning with -- but certainly not limited to -- the fact that when they met, Harry was a glorified computer programmer whom Zayn had to painstakingly coax into spying for him. But to Harry’s great shock, what comes out of Zayn’s mouth instead is: “But Lou, you never train _anybody_.”

“Alright, that’s a _slight_ exaggeration--”

“No it’s not! Liam tried to assign you a junior agent _once_ , in Prague, and you _lost her_.”

Some of Harry’s horror must show on his face, because Zayn immediately rushes to clarify: “Oh Christ, no, she didn’t _die_. Louis _literally_ lost her. In the streets.”

“We were chasing someone on foot. I didn’t have a lot of choices,” Louis mutters.

“So go on, then. What did he do to you in Dynas Mynach? Was it awful?” Zayn presses, with no small amount of glee.

“Er...no? I mean, you seemed a little annoyed maybe?” Harry turns to address Louis directly. He’s looking distinctly like he’d rather be anywhere else for this conversation, while Zayn watches them both avidly. Harry continues: “But, like, I was trying to actively sabotage your investigation. So, in that context, I’d say you were more than fair?”

“ _Louis_ \--” Zayn starts, but Louis quells him with a vicious glare. Zayn rolls his eyes but doesn’t push it.

“If we’re all done gossiping, I want to talk about how we’re going to get out of Saint-Lazare without alerting Vaughn,” Louis announces, a bit sharply.

“Oh,” Harry murmurs. It’s a small, inadvertent noise, but it’s enough to bring the considerable force of Louis’ attention down upon him.

“Why ‘oh’?” Louis demands, his brows creasing. Harry shifts awkwardly under the scrutiny and curses his own inability to stay quiet.

“No, it’s just--” He looks down into his drink for inspiration and, finding none, is forced to meet Louis’ piercing stare once more. “Erm...I guess I’d just assumed we’d stay? It just seems like we have an advantage here. Because we know where Vaughn is, and we know he wants _us_ , right? So we have, like, more control?” Harry trails off, feeling more ridiculous the longer he talks, and curls up self-protectively into his armchair.

Zayn is regarding Harry silently, and while his stare is less intense than Louis’, it’s certainly no less intimidating.

“And if we did stay? What did you _assume_ we’d do?” Zayn finally asks.

“Oh, um, well…” Harry proceeds to sketch out the loose plan he’d imagined while they were walking back to Zayn’s flat. When he’s done, Louis and Zayn proceed to have a silent conversation over his head, the terms and outcome of which are completely opaque to Harry. Harry rests his chin on his elbow and tries to ignore them, until finally, the argument seems to conclude. Louis turns to Harry with a sigh.

“Zayn’s right. I should’ve told you I had my eye on you for fieldwork. But you’ve managed to convince yourself you’re not any good at this, and I was worried that if you knew, you’d panic. Or worse, refuse to come. But the truth is, after you left the hospital, Liam agreed to let me observe you in Saint-Lazare. I’m meeting with him when we get back to London, and he’ll decide if you’d make a good candidate for MI6’s field training program. But I should tell you -- I don’t have any doubt about what he’ll say.” Louis raises his eyebrows significantly, but Harry’s mind is whirling too quickly for him to process what that gesture might mean.

“Is that why--” Harry stops. He’s not sure how to ask what he really wants to know -- _How much of what happened in the club was a test_ \-- without giving away far more than is comfortable, especially with Zayn still listening in. And Louis either doesn’t pick up on Harry’s unspoken question, or chooses to ignore it.

“You’re right, of course. Staying here to turn the tables on Vaughn is a good move. I was hoping you’d suggest it.” He grins a bit cheekily, but Harry can practically _feel_ his own face falling. So Louis _has_ been manipulating him on this trip, prompting him into action and then taking notes on how he responds. Harry doesn’t have to hear the rest out loud to know.

“Oh,” he says in a low voice. Louis glances at him sharply, but maybe he’s not as observant as either of them assumed. Louis relaxes after a beat of scrutiny, giving Harry another one of those wide, warm grins that Harry used to love -- used to think _meant_ something -- and clapping him on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, Harold. You’ve come up with a good plan. Everything’s going to go brilliantly.”

***

“I was looking for something that says, ‘selling out a beloved friend.’ But in a tasteful way.” Gabi frowns down at her outfit, a scarlet dress that drapes elegantly to her knees and scoops low in the back. She twists so that the dress flares a bit, and then frowns again.

“It’s an honor to be sold out by a woman in Givenchy,” Zayn assures her. He offers Gabi his hand and twirls her easily around the empty club floor.

“Enough flirting.” Louis breezes into the club, a mysterious silver briefcase in one hand. “There’s still a lot we need to do before we can betray Zayn.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to _flirt_ on a _mission_ ,” Zayn drawls, releasing Gabi with a sarcastic little bow. She laughs and slips away to confer with her staff. “Unacceptable behavior. Right, Lou?”

A light flush creeps across Louis’ cheekbones. He strides over to the bar without looking in Harry’s direction at all, and slams the briefcase down more aggressively than is perhaps necessary. And Harry can’t help the way his own face falls, although he has no illusions that he can conceal much of anything from the multiple trained spies in the room.

It’s been like this for days. Harry’s plan depends on Gabi using her friends in Saint-Lazare to make contact with Vaughn and broker a deal: Zayn’s life for a substantial payout. Harry, Louis and Zayn have been waiting in Zayn’s safehouse for her signal. Zayn and Harry have always gotten on well, and even practically imprisoned in Zayn’s flat, they’ve had no trouble regaining the sense of easy comfort they’d developed while working together in London.

With Louis, it’s been a different story. It’s almost like those first days in Dynas Mynach all over again, when Louis’ sharp tongue had still been untempered by the playfulness and warmth that Harry has come to expect from him, and when Harry couldn’t seem to do anything right. But unlike in Dynas Mynach, Louis can’t seem to stay in the same room as Harry either. He’s very skilled at the avoidance, especially considering they’re confined to a half-dozen rooms all told. It’s subtle enough that Harry’s not even sure Zayn notices, but Harry certainly does. And every time Louis slips silently out of another space that Harry’s inhabiting, he also gets the oddest, almost hunted look on his face.

So that’s been great.

It was everything that Harry had been expecting, when he realized that Louis had been testing Harry on behalf of MI6, but it still hurts. Perhaps more than it should.

Although it’s easy to see now why Louis is so good at his job, and why Charlie and Tom were so quick to respond when he flirted. Having Louis’ attention, Harry has found, is a bit like being under a sunlamp in winter. It’s almost impossible not to respond, to unfurl whatever is coldest and most guarded about you, and reach out toward it.

It’s just difficult to find yourself in the dark again. That’s all.

“You’ve locked all the doors in the back of the club? Except the back office and the alley?” Louis asks briskly, still fiddling with whatever’s in his case.

“Yes, Mum,” Zayn sing-songs, and Louis shoots a scowl at him.

“Alright, my contact was only able to get me two wireless in-ears on such short notice, plus an extra gun,” Louis continues. “The in-ears are for Harry and me, since we’re both on surveillance.” Louis will be positioned in the back alley, ready to intercept Vaughn if he bolts. They’d determined that Harry was the best person to act as look-out in the club itself. He’d shed his Frank Blake disguise, so would hopefully be less recognizable to Vaughn than Louis, especially after they made some simple changes to the shape of his face with Louis’ well-used stash of prosthetics and makeup.

“The gun is for Zayn. Just keep it hidden, yeah?”

“Oh, I dunno, I was planning on _brandishing_ it at the man we’re trying to entrap. Is that not a good plan?” Zayn scoffs. He snatches the gun out of Louis’ hand and does an efficient chamber check before concealing it under his jacket. “Seriously, Louis?”

Louis gives Zayn an apologetic grimace and a shrug. “I know, I’m just worried. We’re not gonna have a lot of control once Vaughn arrives. A lot can go wrong with this one.”

Whatever he hears in Louis’ tone makes Zayn straighten up from his vaguely sullen slouch against a barstool. “You having second thoughts?” he asks crisply. Harry’s surprised by how dangerous his tone sounds all of a sudden, with all the humor stripped from it.

“No, it’s a good plan.” Louis gives Harry an inscrutable look, and Harry wonders if Louis is afraid of offending him somehow. It _had_ technically been his plan to start with. Louis sighs, and directs his next words at the floor: “ I just -- I don’t love what we’re risking.”

“Aww, Lou!” Zayn coos, slinging an easy arm around his shoulders. Louis laughs and shrugs him off, along with the vestiges of whatever nerves he’d been feeling.

It’s only later, after the club has already opened, that Louis seems to remember his prior concerns. Zayn has taken up his position as bait in the club’s back room, Gabi is flitting about the club floor, and Louis is preparing to slip out to the alley. Harry’s turned toward the bar for a moment, but when he swivels back around, Louis has suddenly moved much closer into his space. Just as with the last time they were together in this club, their bodies aren’t touching at all. And Harry still feels every inch of him vividly.

Their eyes meet -- perhaps for the first time in days -- and Harry can’t help the way his breath catches. Louis’ eyes are stormy with something like worry, but their characteristic intensity is just as overwhelming as ever.

“Wish I could’ve got you a gun,” Louis murmurs. He tips his head back further and bites his lip, and Harry wonders for one stupid moment whether Louis is asking to be kissed. Harry could do it. He could easily bridge the few inches that still separate their faces and pull Louis towards him at last. He could rescue Louis’ bottom lip from where his teeth are worrying at it, soothe it with his tongue until Louis’ mouth goes soft and pliant for him, until Louis lets Harry in.

Harry could do it. He almost does.

But Louis is frowning, clearly troubled rather than seductive. His expression permeates Harry’s lust-addled brain an instant before his words do, although it still takes Harry a few seconds to gather his wits enough to respond.

“M’actually rubbish with guns. The one I shot in Dynas Mynach was, like, 75% bluff and 25% aiming for the wall.” Harry shrugs and offers Louis a self-deprecating little smile, but Louis’ frown only deepens.

“Still…” He draws the word out, looking thoughtfully at the club door, and Harry has a sudden vision of Louis taking off into the night to find Harry a gun. Or worse, giving Harry his own.

“I’ll barely be in the same room as Vaughn, I don’t need a gun,” Harry insists, a bit more sharply than he meant to. But there’s a fierceness to Louis’ expression that Harry doesn’t understand, and he can’t quite shake the sense that Louis is contemplating doing something stupid.

Louis sighs and slumps a little.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s -- I know. Yeah.” Louis breaks their eye contact to glance over Harry’s shoulder. He runs a restless hand through his hair. It drops briefly to Harry’s arm, in a gesture halfway between a pat and a caress, and then Louis is abruptly wheeling away.

“Keep your earpiece on. I want updates every five minutes,” Louis’ voice comes through his in-ear, even as the man himself is already halfway across the club floor.

Harry doesn’t move for a good two minutes, trying desperately to makes sense of the conversation that’s just occurred, before he gives up. He perches on a barstool of his own and settles in to wait for Vaughn.

It takes six dutiful five-minute updates to Louis before Vaughn finally arrives. Harry watches over the rim of the cocktail he’s barely sipped as Vaughn approaches Gabi. She’s been laughing with different acquaintances all evening; if Harry didn’t know better, he never would have suspected that Gabi was about to prompt a confrontation with an attempted murderer.

“Lou,” Harry says quietly. “He’s here.”

Vaughn is clearly wary. His eyes are constantly moving, sweeping across the club for anything out-of-place, but he doesn’t give any indication that he recognizes Harry. Gabi turns and gives Vaughn a polite smile: tense enough to seem genuine, but not overly panicked. It’s a masterful performance, and Harry silently hopes never to have those powers of deception turned against him. Gabi says something to Vaughn that Harry doesn’t catch, and Vaughn nods in response. She steers him toward the back room with a light hand on his arm. Harry takes another fake drink of his cocktail.

He’ll probably never know what spooks Vaughn: if Gabi had given it away, if he’d spotted Harry after all, if it was just some odd spy sense, or maybe Vaughn had never really intended to follow through with his deal. But whatever the reason, by the time Harry’s put his cocktail down, Vaughn and Gabi are slipping through, not the employee door, but the main door to the club.

“ _Shit_ ,” Harry curses, and drops any pretense of a cover to take off after them.

“What is it?” Louis asks urgently into his ear.

“Vaughn’s got Gabi. He’s gone through the front.” Harry makes it through the door himself, and manages to catch sight of Vaughn and Gabi just before they turn a corner. “I’ve got him, he’s gone left out of the club.”

Louis curses steadily and inventively for several seconds, before biting out orders in a tone of voice that’s one step short of murderous.

“Pursue with caution. I’ll try to cut him off. Keep him in sight, but _do not approach_. Do you understand, Agent Styles?”

Harry, whose childhood asthma is making itself known during his mad dash after Vaughn, doesn’t have the breath to properly respond. He hopes his gasp of acknowledgement is enough for Louis.

“You don’t even have a gun! _Harry --_ I need to know you’re hearing me --”

Louis’ orders are getting increasingly frantic, but Harry stops listening. Instead, he hurtles around a corner and straight into Vaughn and Gabi. They seem to have accidentally turned down a blind alley, with Harry now blocking their only avenue of escape. Vaughn’s got a hand clenched tightly around Gabi’s arm and a gun held with professional ease against her body. When he sees Harry, he breaks into a wolfish grin.

“Thought you might turn up. You _are_ very eager,” Vaughn says, eyes flickering appraisingly over Harry’s hunched and wheezing form. With some effort, Harry forces his breathing to slow and his body to straighten up.

“Well, to be honest, Saint-Lazare has been getting a bit boring. Not much of a skier, you know.” Harry attempts a careful step closer to Gabi and Vaughn, but he stops the instant Vaughn starts to tense up. Harry’s mind races, searching desperately for a way to get both him and Gabi out of this. There’s no doubt in his mind that Vaughn could kill both of them without a thought.

When Harry had taken off after Vaughn, he’d been operating strictly on instinct. Vaughn ran, so Harry ran too. He even thinks that given time and a bit more oxygen, Louis’ warnings would have permeated his stupid brain. Harry’s not a hero, nor is he particularly suicidal. But in a way, maybe Vaughn is right. Harry seems oddly good at _turning up_ in the face of danger, but he’s not contributed much else, has he?

It’s then that the beginnings of a plan start forming. Not a _good_ plan, maybe. But a plan nonetheless, and surely Harry has to do _something_.

He forces his posture to loosen, and gives Vaughn what he hopes is a supercilious smirk.

“Also I figured, why bother with all this trouble and collateral damage, when I can just give you what you want?”

Gabi’s eyes widen and there’s a burst of inarticulate noise against his ear. Harry’d forgotten that Louis can still hear him. He pulls his earpiece out and stuffs it into his pocket, a move that Vaughn certainly doesn’t miss. His eyes narrow.

“Look,” Harry says, and suddenly he just feels tired -- of a lot of things, but mostly of how much time he’s spent lately being frightened in alleys. “I’m not a spy. I know I’m not really cut out for it. I don’t like the idea of other people getting hurt in my place; I’m not sure any information I’m holding is worth it. So ask me what you want to know about Cowell, and I’ll tell you. Just...promise to leave Gabi alone.”

“You have to know it won’t be that easy,” Vaughn says, a smirk ghosting across his lips, but Harry can tell he’s intrigued.

It’s that instant of calculation that ruins him, because as he contemplates Harry’s words, the hand holding his gun wavers slightly. And that’s the only opening Gabi needs.

She drives one stiletto heel into Vaughn’s foot, and then follows it up immediately with a sharp elbow to the nose. Vaughn doubles over in pain and his finger tightens instinctively on the trigger. The shot goes harmlessly into a nearby wall, and a split-second later, Gabi’s neatly disarmed him. It’s only when she has the gun trained steadily on Vaughn’s chest from a safe distance away that she risks a glance over at Harry. She must see some of Harry’s shock on his face, because she raises an eyebrow and shoots him an insouciant shrug.

“Paraphrasing your Oscar Wilde: To be kidnapped once is a misfortune; to be kidnapped twice looks like carelessness. I am not a careless person, Agent Styles.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Harry agrees a bit faintly. She shoots him a sharp grin and then turns back to Vaughn, who is glaring at them both through the blood streaming from his nose.

“But what do we do with him _now_? The courses never covered _that_ ,” Gabi murmurs, almost to herself. She turns wide, comically dismayed eyes on Harry, and suddenly Harry is laughing, hysterical with adrenaline and helpless to stop.

“I think the traditional advice is to run,” he offers through his giggles, and Gabi’s mouth turns down into a pout.

“What rubbish--” But her complaint gets interrupted by the sound of footsteps pounding toward them from the main street. “Ah, a much better idea,” she finishes serenely, just as Louis careens around the corner and nearly knocks Harry off his feet. Louis grabs Harry’s arm to stabilize him, but then doesn’t let go. Instead, he wheels around and grips Harry’s biceps tightly enough to bruise.

“I heard a shot,” Louis pants, and then presses his lips so tightly together that they go completely white. His eyes narrow as his gaze flickers erratically across Harry’s body: his forehead, his chest, his left shoulder, his mouth. “ _Was it you_?”

The question makes no sense to Harry, but Louis’ tone is terse bordering on the accusatory, and he still hasn’t let go of Harry’s arms. So Harry responds with instinctive defensiveness: “I didn’t even have a gun!”

“I know, I told you! And it was all I could think about--” Louis snaps, voice rising higher with something Harry is shocked to recognize as badly concealed panic. “You didn’t have a fucking gun, and why the _fuck_ \--” He cuts himself off with a sharp breath and then hisses in a truly murderous voice: “Please, Harry, just do me a fucking favor and tell me if you’re hurt.”

“Oh! No, the shot was an accident. It went wide when Gabi elbowed Vaughn in the face.”

“When Gabi--” Louis seems to take in the other occupants of the alley for the first time. Harry watches in fascination as Louis closes his eyes for one beat -- then two. When he opens them again, they’re back to their usual placid blue, with no hint of the turbulence of the last few minutes. Louis takes a few careful steps back from Harry, and then turns to address Gabi.

“Gabriele, you’re a marvel. Mind if I handcuff this one? We’ll bring him back to the club and contact Interpol from there, yeah?”

“What, no fears for my safety?” Gabi asks gravely, even as her eyes gleam with something like laughter as she looks between Harry and Louis.

“Clearly not necessary,” Louis murmurs as he runs a professional eye over Vaughn’s injuries. Vaughn, now that he’s been caught, seems content to glare hatefully at each of them in turn. Harry’s under no illusions -- he’s certain that Vaughn is still just waiting for the chance to escape if possible -- but Louis handcuffs his hands behind his back without incident before training his own gun on Vaughn as well.

Louis’ entire focus remains on Vaughn until they return to the club. Zayn, clearly furious at having been left behind, helps Louis imprison Vaughn more securely in Gabi’s office. But the moment they’re done, Zayn wheels on the three of them and demands to know what happened.

Rather than answering, Gabi turns to Harry with a speculative look that Harry’s instantly wary of, and asks: “Were you really going to go with him? Or was that a bluff?”

“You were going to _what_?” The question seems to come from both Louis and Zayn simultaneously. Zayn just blinks at him, his eyebrows climbing higher every second, but it’s Louis’ reaction that worries Harry the most. At Gabi’s words, Louis’ head had whipped around to stare at him, before turning away just as abruptly. He’s looking fixedly at a spot in the opposite corner of the room now, his jaw tightly clenched.

The longer Louis goes without speaking, the more Harry’s heart sinks. Harry knows through long experience that Louis’ temper is immediate and cutting when he feels someone’s done something stupid. Harry doesn’t understand what his silence means now, but he reckons it can’t be anything good.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Louis finally clips out, after several eternal seconds. When Louis turns around, his face has been wiped carefully of all emotion again, with that air of professional detachment that Harry finds so deeply disconcerting.

And, true to his word, Louis launches himself efficiently into the negotiations surrounding Vaughn’s arrest and extraction to England. He seems to be on the phone with ten different people simultaneously, all of whom he treats like they’re his best friends, while he also fields Zayn’s whispered commentary beside him.

It is, frankly, a bit overwhelming. For perhaps the first time since Harry’s known him, Louis looks utterly at ease with his job. Harry realizes, now that Louis is so resolutely _not_ focusing on him, how much of Louis’ attention Harry must have taken up before, either as a vaguely suspicious presence in Dynas Mynach, or as a potential recruit in Saint-Lazare. But now, as Louis launches into the intricacies of the international legal system with something approaching relish, Harry can’t help but feel guilty once again for his own part in everything that’s happened. He wonders how quickly Louis would’ve found and captured Vaughn without Harry working against him and acting as as a distraction.

Harry suddenly feels useless and _so tired_. He curls into a chair in the corner of the office and lets the sounds of Louis arguing with local law enforcement wash over him. The familiar cadence is so comfortable -- even the clipped consonants of Louis at his most annoyed feels oddly calming -- and Harry falls asleep to Louis gleefully telling someone off for their “pathological obsession with the chain of command.”

***

Harry wakes up some time later, startled and disoriented, to find the office empty and Louis’ jacket tucked around him. He’s still trying to figure out how it got there when Zayn pokes his head through the door.

“Good, you’re awake. Vaughn’s in custody, but Lou wants me to babysit him until one of our lot can come collect him. He says you’re fine to go home, though, if you like.”

“Home?” Harry asks. He sleepily wonders if he’s being sent back to London. Some of his dismay must show on his face, because Zayn gives him a strange look and clarifies.

“Yeah, to the flat. Beats sleeping in a chair, I’d imagine.”

“Oh, erm, alright,” Harry agrees. He gathers up Louis’ jacket, and hesitates awkwardly over whether to drape it around his shoulders or just hold it. It smells like Louis, like the spicy hints of his cologne, and Harry _wants_ to be wearing it, suddenly. He wants to wrap it around himself, the way it had been when he was sleeping, but Zayn is now openly staring. So Harry, thoroughly flustered now, clutches the jacket to his chest and flees.

Louis is already there when Harry arrives at the safe house. If Harry hadn’t still been half-asleep, he might have inferred that from his conversation with Zayn, but as it is, he’s caught completely by surprise when he swings the door open and sees Louis sprawled in an armchair, holding a generous pour of whiskey and staring thoughtfully at the wall. Harry yelps, and Louis tilts his head backwards to regard him. There’s something much more relaxed about him now, a laziness to his movements that prompts Harry to wonder how much whiskey Louis has already drunk. And then Harry realizes he’s practically hugging Louis’ jacket _in front of Louis_ , and all thoughts of whiskey flee his mind.

“Harold.” Louis acknowledges him with a solemn little nod. “We should talk.”

“Erm.” There are very few things that Harry wants to do _less_ , if he’s quite honest. But it probably beats lurking eternally on the threshold of this Swiss flat, albeit by a _very_ slim margin, and so he’s forced to add: “Yes?”

He slinks into the room and settles into an armchair across from Louis. Louis just watches him. Harry, feeling utterly out of his depth, can think of nothing to do but thrust the crumpled jacket into his hands.

“Thanks for this,” Harry chokes out. Louis stares at his prodigal jacket with an odd expression, before sighing and rubbing one hand down his face. Harry is suddenly aware of how tired Louis looks, pale and brittle-seeming around the edges.

“God, maybe Zayn was right,” Louis mumbles. Harry isn’t sure if he’s supposed to’ve heard it or not, so he just stays quiet and waits. Louis sighs again. He opens his eyes and looks at Harry, gaze direct and a little wry, but remarkably clear given the whiskey. “This has been a disaster,” he adds, like it’s an obvious conclusion.

And it’s not that Harry _doesn’t_ agree. It _has_ been a disaster in, like, _objective_ terms. But it still sends a sharp pang of hurt through his chest to hear Louis say it so plainly.

“I know it was my plan,” Harry agrees, and he must not be as brave or as ruthless as Louis, because he needs to duck his eyes when he’s owning up to his mistakes. “Why d’you think I--”

“That’s _really_ not it,” Louis grits out, and his tone startles Harry into obeying. “You still don’t seem to get how much I fucking… _lost my mind_ on this mission. I just went _totally stupid_ over you, and I never --” Louis breaks off, pressing his lips together and staring resolutely at the ground. As Harry processes the words, he can _feel_ it when his own heart turns over. It’s almost too much to believe that Louis means it the way Harry desperately wants him to. His mouth drops open and he tries to catch Louis’ eye, to make absolutely sure, but Louis is still frowning down at the rug.

“Liam never should have let you come with me to Saint-Lazare. He knew it, I knew it...hell, the moment Zayn fuckin’ decided to show up, _he_ knew it. Liam only let you come because he trusted me to do what was right for the mission. And to keep you safe. I betrayed that trust on both counts. Harry, you _never_ should have been put in the position you were in tonight. The idea that you were willing to give yourself up for _anything_ or _anyone_ …”

Louis finally lifts his eyes from his intense contemplation of the rug, and Harry is shocked by the pain and regret that have filled them.

“I told myself I just wanted to mentor you -- that my interest in you was strictly professional -- and that lie nearly got you killed. I’m so sorry, Harry.” Louis meets his eyes steadily throughout the apology, forthright and sorrowful and warm as ever. Harry stares back. His mind feels particularly useless right now, but he does know two things with complete certainty. First, it’s been one of the longest days of his life, what with the kidnapping, and confronting his own mortality, and the interruption of his nap. And second, that none of those things were as difficult to endure as the three feet of space currently dividing himself from Louis Tomlinson.

Without another thought, Harry launches himself at Louis. Louis’ eyes widen and he lets out a squeak of surprise, hands coming up to defend himself from what he clearly imagines to be an attack. Harry lands with one knee barely on the chair, no idea where the other has ended up, and his arms grabbing Louis around the neck before he topples right off the side. And then he feels Louis’ hands come up to grip his waist, steadying him.

Harry’s eyes fly open to see Louis grinning at him in what’s clearly one part fondness and three parts suppressed laughter. There’s a beat where they both just smile at each other, bodies hopelessly tangled and faces close but not touching. And even after everything, after all the distance Harry has imagined between them, it somehow feels like the easiest thing in the world for Harry to tip his head forward and catch Louis’ lips with his own.

The angle isn’t ideal -- with Harry still hovering awkwardly over Louis -- but Louis lips are as soft and warm as Harry’d imagined they would be. They’re a bit smoky with residual whiskey, and when Louis’ hand slides up into Harry’s hair to draw him closer, it’s still so easy for Harry to follow. He deepens the kiss, slipping his tongue into Louis’ mouth and relishing the soft groan that Louis makes in return, the way Louis’ hands clench against his head and his hip. Harry wants to press closer; he doesn’t think he can ever get close enough to Louis. He surges forward, only for his knee to knock against something soft. Louis lets out another groan, significantly less aroused than the first, and Harry pulls back.

“I’m not sure what I--”

“My kidney, I think,” Louis offers wryly. His mouth is wet and his eyes are laughing, and it’s very difficult for Harry to think about the organization of his own limbs in the face of _that look_. A fact that leads them quickly into disaster when Harry tries to shift into a more comfortable position and nearly gives them both a concussion.

Louis is laughing outright now, as he uses a combination of wiry strength and -- probably -- arcane magic to lift Harry off him and set him on his feet. It’s so ridiculously sexy that Harry can’t help but pull Louis up to kiss him again, their bodies finally slotting together in one solid press of heat.

“ _God_ , Harry-- been driving me mad,” Louis murmurs as he nips little bites down the line of Harry’s throat. When he reaches Harry’s collarbone, he bites down a bit sharper than before, a burst of pleasure-pain that makes Harry whimper and his cock press even more painfully against the fabric of his jeans. Louis pulls back to stare at him with dark, lust-blown eyes. Harry doesn’t even want to know what his own expression looks like right now, but whatever he sees makes Louis mumble “ _fuckin’ hell_ ” before he tilts forward to kiss Harry again.

“Can I--um--” Harry gasps, in between the kisses that he can’t seem to stop.

“No idea what that means, but answer’s prob’ly yes,” Louis mumbles against his lips, and Harry swears he can taste the moment Louis starts smiling again.

“OK, just -- the chair --” Harry pants, pulling away just long enough to tug Louis’ shirt over his head, greedy for the view of all that golden skin, that compact muscle, the _tattoos, Christ_.

“Seriously? We just escaped from that chair. Are you really willing to risk it?” Louis asks, his focus clearly split between the conversation and the flies of Harry’s trousers.

“No, I meant -- _you_ sit in the chair, _I’ll_ be on the floor. ‘S a completely different--” Harry makes what he hopes is an illustrative gesture. “--y’know. Maneuver.”

“Oh my God, alright. I’ll sit down if you promise to stop doing whatever that is with your hands. You look like a Bond villain,” Louis laughs, catching them between his own and giving them a sweet kiss on the knuckles. “You weirdo.”

“What, that’s not something you’re into, Agent Tomlinson?” Harry purrs.

“Oh no...”

“Bit of role play? I could always _Blo_ your _feld_.”

“ _Please_ stop.”

Maybe some goldfingering? Or would we need a license to -- _fuck_!”

Louis grins wolfishly at Harry before giving his cock another hard stroke. He adds in a twist to his wrist that’s perfectly calculated to make Harry see stars. _Well-played, Mr Bond,_ Harry thinks dizzily, before he gathers himself together enough to remember his original plan. He gives Louis a gentle shove backwards towards the chair, and Louis goes easily, falling into a casual sprawl and then watching hungrily as Harry pulls his own shirt off.

“Get your cock out,” Harry gasps as he wriggles out of his trousers as well, and Louis starts laughing even as he moves to obey.

“The romance is already dead, I see,” Louis quips, but Harry catches the way his eyes darken when Harry sinks to his knees in front of him, so Harry reckons the romance will be fine. Louis undoes his own flies slowly, holding Harry’s gaze with a bit of challenge as he pulls down the zipper. Harry growls at him impatiently and his smirk widens, but he obligingly slides his trousers and pants down his hips in one practiced motion until his cock bounces free of the fabric. It’s a fucking gorgeous cock, Harry decides: long and a bit narrower than Harry’s own, colored a dusky pink that contrasts beautifully with the golden-brown curls that frame it. Christ, he wants to taste it -- can’t believe he wasted precious _seconds_ on stupid Bond puns when he could’ve had Louis Tomlinson’s cock in his mouth _that whole time_.

“Yeah, Lou. Gonna suck you,” Harry says, which might be self-evident, but he can’t be held responsible for poetry when Louis is moving closer to the edge of chair so Harry can slip between his knees. Harry slides his hands up Louis’ inner thighs; he watches avidly as the muscles jump and Louis clenches his jaw, eyes blazing. And then he finally ducks down to wrap his lips around the head of Louis’ cock, relishing the salty burst of taste on his tongue.

Harry has some vague plan about paying Louis back for the tease in the club -- although it feels like ages ago now -- and so he starts slow, easing himself down Louis shaft in a maddeningly lazy slide that has Louis moaning above him. He glides back up equally slowly while adding in some truly evil flicks of his tongue.

“Why are you-- C’mon Harry,” Louis gasps, already sounding dangerously close to losing control. It’s such a heady rush to hear that strain in Louis’ voice, when he’s probably the most self-possessed man Harry’s ever met. And Harry wants more of it, _badly,_ maybe even more intensely than he wants to come himself. He wants to hear what Louis sounds like when he’s begging; he wants to hear what Louis sounds like when he’s coming apart; he wants to hear what Louis sounds like when he can barely make a sound at all.

Harry moans around Louis’ cock, his own getting impossibly harder at the thought, and Louis’ thighs shudder desperately under his hands.

“Harry,” Louis mumbles again, before his mouth falls open. He’s tossed his head back against the chair, one arm draped over his eyes and the other clenching the cushion in a white-knuckled grip.

_Next time_ , Harry thinks. Somehow he doubts either of them will be lasting much longer tonight. So he takes pity on Louis at last, setting a firmer pace and wrapping one hand around the length of Louis’ shaft that Harry’s mouth can’t reach. His other hand reaches up to play with Louis’ balls, and Louis tenses above him.

“I’m--” Louis gasps, running one hand lightly through Harry’s hair in warning, but Harry wants to taste him, has the strange and sudden urge to get as close to Louis as he physically can, so the warning only spurs him on until Louis is coming down his throat with a choked-off cry.

Harry pulls away and wipes one hand over his mouth before glancing up. He can’t help a slight grin at the sight of Louis, boneless and flushed, slumped in the armchair like a dissolute king on a throne. Louis quirks one tired eyebrow at him in response.

“If I knew the LSE boys could suck cock like that, I might’ve become an economist.”

“That particular skill came from Leeds Festival, actually. Went in sixth form. I met a boy during the Arctic Monkeys set who had a dry tent and a great smile. Didn’t see another set the whole weekend, but the education was probably more valuable than anything I learned at uni.”

Harry’s still hard, achingly so, but there’s something oddly peaceful about this moment nevertheless: Louis still catching his breath but looking genuinely interested in the silly story of Harry’s first blowjob, as his hand continues to card absently through Harry’s curls.

“Well, remind me to send Alex Turner a fruit basket,” Louis says, his eyes crinkling with humor. He slides off the chair to join Harry on the floor. Louis pushes Harry backward with one hand while the other slips behind his head to protect it from the fall, and Harry experiences a brief moment of dizziness until his world reorients to accommodate their new respective positions: Harry now lying on the ground and Louis sitting on his thighs, pressing his arse down against Harry’s cock, all innocent eyes and wicked smile. He dips forward to give Harry a brief kiss and murmur “you’re brilliant” against Harry’s lips, and Harry’s so busy indulging in the warm rush of pleasure that swoops through him, that he almost misses Louis slithering down his body to settle between his legs.

He’s already so turned on that Louis barely has to get his mouth around Harry’s cock before Harry is whimpering out a warning. Louis pulls away at the last second to get Harry off with his hand instead, thumbing the head and watching Harry’s face hungrily for the moment he comes with a gasp.

“You know, I have this plan,” Louis says, a bit later, once they’ve cleaned themselves up and made a half-hearted stab at clothing. They’re cuddled up on the couch together, and Louis has his hands in Harry’s hair again. Harry worries it’s becoming an obsession, although he’s not entirely certain _whose_ , which means it’s probably fine. “I was thinking that after everything that’s happened, you could use a vacation. So if you want, I can get rid of Zayn for a few days and take you on a proper ski holiday. Hot chocolate and firelight and chairlifts. The real deal.”

Harry turns his head toward Louis, who is actually looking _anxious_ , although Harry can’t imagine why. It’s terribly endearing and Harry lets some of his fondness show on his face, enough that Louis relaxes against him and resumes his assault on Harry’s hair.

“I mean, that sounds lovely,” Harry drawls. “But I sincerely hope that you mean “ski holiday” in the same loose way that I meant “Leeds Festival.””

“So that’s a ‘no’ on the chairlifts. I think I can work with that.”

“But a ‘yes’ on hot chocolate and firelight. Two out of three is the real enough deal for me,” Harry agrees, yawning. He’s been sliding further down Louis’ body throughout the conversation, so that now he’s in a perfect position to burrow his head against Louis’ stomach. All the sleepiness he’d been feeling when he’d come into flat rushes back over him. Louis’ hand starts stroking the back of his neck in long, hypnotic movements.

“Hey, Lou?” Harry slurs, already on the edge of sleep and talking mostly in stream-of-consciousness. “After the hot chocolate and the sex, what happens? In London?”

Louis tenses under him. It rouses Harry instantly, and he jolts up to stare at Louis. There’s something careful about the way Louis is looking back at him, and Harry’s stomach clenches with anxiety. Had he totally read this wrong?

“Unless this is more of a Bond Girl than a longstanding nemesis situation,” Harry tries to joke, but he’s pretty sure it falls flat.

“No!” Louis rushes to explain. “I was just going to say that you’ll be reassigned. To someone who can mentor you properly.”

Louis is giving him an encouraging smile, but the words still hit Harry like a blow. Despite what Louis had just insisted, it certainly _feels_ like a rejection.

“I don’t want anyone else,” Harry insists stubbornly. But Louis only quirks his mouth into perhaps the softest smile Harry’s yet seen from him.

“Well that’s too bad for me, because unfortunately you can’t be in a sexual relationship with your mentor. Strictly against the rules.” There’s a glimmer of humor in Louis’ eyes as he very deliberately pulls Harry in for a languid kiss.

_Oh._

“And we all know how seriously you take the rules,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ mouth. He feels half-drunk from just that kiss alone, and it’s a struggle to open his eyes enough to see Louis’ laughing expression.

“It’s a curse,” Louis agrees cheerfully, before he pulls Harry into his lap to kiss him again.

“Lou, we-- _ugh_.”

Harry twists his head to see Zayn, newly arrived and looking pained in the doorway. In Zayn’s defense -- as Harry realizes with a sudden shock of recognition -- he and Louis are not the most clothed they’ve ever been.

He turns back to Louis, ready to share an embarrassed grimace, but Louis has become distracted by the prospect of bickering with Zayn. His hands stay securely on Harry’s hips, though, and it seems to be instinct for him to run a comforting path down Harry’s spine, even as the majority of his attention is on a burgeoning argument about something logistical-sounding and _clearly_ not worth the interruption.

Harry tunes in to the conversation in time to hear Louis say: “It’s not a big deal, just a few extra days,” and for Zayn to retort, incredulous: “Are you fucking with me right now? It’s a safe house, not a goddamn Airbnb.”

“I’m sorry, _I’m_ not the dickhead who picked _Saint-Lazare_ to lie low in, am I?” Louis shoots back immediately. Zayn makes a rude gesture and stomps past them to his bedroom. Harry blinks at Louis.

“Does that mean something’s been resolved, or...?”

Louis shoots him a grin, wide and loose. “It means, Agent Styles, that Operation Hot Chocolate Sex Vacation is a go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who noticed the significance of the names [Charlie Carmichael](http://chuck-nbc.wikia.com/wiki/Charles_Carmichael), [Tom Quinn](http://spooks.wikia.com/wiki/Tom_Quinn), and [Mike Vaughn](http://alias.wikia.com/wiki/Michael_Vaughn) is my kind of pal. Anyone who noticed the significance of the name Franklin Blake...probably figured out the plot twist immediately haha. For those of you who aren't giant nerds, Franklin Blake is the narrator of _The Moonstone_ , published in 1868 and often considered the first detective novel. Mistaken identities and false accusations abound...I won't spoil the plot by giving it away :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading this! If you liked the fic, you can reblog it [here](http://rainbowninja.tumblr.com/post/166994746300/running-in-the-shadows). The moodboard and manip at the top of the chapters were both created by [sparkling-larry](http://sparkling-larry.tumblr.com/), if you all wanna go tell her how awesome she is!


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